


feel your presence (in your absence)

by acidveins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, read with lots of care!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidveins/pseuds/acidveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> A part of Harry knew it was coming. Except - he didn’t expect Louis to do it the way he did. <i></i></i><br/>(Very simply, a fallout occurs in its most painful form and Harry takes on the world with empty hands and half a lasting heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	feel your presence (in your absence)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otherinfinities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherinfinities/gifts).



> Written for the prompt :
> 
> _anything that will make me want to curl up in a ball and die and then read it again. ___
> 
> Hiiiiii!!! Hopefully the lovely otherinfinities will like this and so will you!! I've really just used this as an opportunity to write shameless angst, so I really hope you don't mind <3 Thanks to [Hannah](http://www.unshipping.tumblr.com/) and [Mirjam](http://www.letthemkissyou.tumblr.com/) for being lovely, fabulous, wonderful beta's - you've both stuck with this from the planning stages and helped with literally everything (even the naming bit) so thank you so sososossoso much, you are both dearly loved <3 Also a massive thank you to tumblerless Angie and tumblerless Nov for all the advice, tough love and encouragement. You are all gold dust and all the remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> **A/N **: This fic deals with the act of cheating and the aftermath of bad decisions. There will also be a scene in which a character will feel very negatively about themselves, instances that suggest possible depression, and scenes in which decisions will be made by the influence of alcohol, so please read with care and be very, very careful. This story also features flawed characters that do not reflect anyone/anything in reality (basically : please do not mix up fictional Harry/Louis with real life Harry/Louis). The Louis/OFC bit is non descriptive and very brief, but still implied. This is all a work of fiction, I do not own anything/anyone.**  
> **
> 
> Also - now that I've been revealed, come say hihihi (or whatever you'd like) on my [tumblr](http://www.harryendous.tumblr.com/)!!! c:  
> Title taken from Step Out by Jose Gonzalez.
> 
> Enjoy ♥♥♥

The bed was made for two. 

The right side and the left side and the parting in between and Harry and Louis were made to fit around each other. Covers blue and white, their skin bare and hot. That was how they lived, and that is how they’ve been since they’ve found each other. Fingers reaching out, searching, and finding each other; minds racing wild, racing near, always side by side. Their bodies a colossal puzzle made up of skin and ink and promises; tangled and bent to curve around each other.

The bed was made for two.

Harry’s been sleeping alone recently. 

-

_June, summer._

“Yeah, I think - I think I’ll be late tonight,” Louis says over the phone. It's grainy through the speaker, but it's all clear in Harry’s mind. He closes his eyes and he waits as the silence settles. Another day Louis won’t be home on time. Another day dinner will go untouched.

“You sure? I made tacos tonight,” Harry urges, his voice hopeful even though he should know better at this point. 

“I really can’t, Haz,” Louis mutters, “I’m sorry. Don’t wait up, yeah? I’ll have something in the office.” Of course he will. Doesn’t mean Harry’s not going to wait. 

“Alright,” Harry takes a deep breath, “I’ll see you in the morning then. I love you.”

He hears silence and he thinks he’s imagining it, till he hears Louis’ voice pulling him back. “I love you too, Haz. Love you loads." His voice is clear, but it turns grainy in Harry’s mind; reassurance and love. “Bye, darling,” Louis says before the line cuts off. 

Harry puts the phone down and stares around the empty apartment. Their new couch is sat neatly in the living room and the kitchen has a light glow shining the apartment awake. Harry’s made four tacos and he goes to bed with four tacos in the fridge. 

-

At two thirty in the morning, Harry feels the bed ripple beside him and he feels a familiar body with an unfamiliar aura slip in beside him. At two thirty in the morning, he’s sleeping beside, but not touching, his love, his life, his end and beginning, and Harry feels his heart stop and fall out of rhythm. 

-

“So, you came home pretty late, then?” Harry asks in the morning. He’s flipping pancakes, a rare breakfast dish considering they had just begun living life away from the poverty line, and Louis’ by the kettle, shirt and pants pressed onto his body as he gets ready for work. 

“Yeah, I told you I would,” Louis says absentmindedly. He’s becoming very short with his words, and Harry just wants him to slow down. 

“No, yeah, but I,” he doesn’t know how he wants to say this. “I stayed up pretty late waiting for you, past midnight even, but-”

“Harry,” Louis sighs, “I told you to go to sleep. I told you I’d be home late.”

Harry frowns, setting a plate of pancakes on their dining table and wiping his hands on his pants. “I’m not allowed to stay up waiting for my boyfriend?” he questions, staring at Louis who isn’t meeting his eye. 

“It’s not that, Harry,” Louis sighs again. “It’s just that - you’re working and taking care of the house, I don’t want you to do something as dumb as waiting up for me. You’ve gotta be tired.” 

“If I’m tired, then so are you.” Harry moves closer to smooth the wrinkles around the shoulder of Louis’ shirt. He rests his palms flat on the material and looks at Louis with wide, hopeful eyes, craving attention and craving love. “Stay in today. I’ll call the school telling them I’m not feeling well and you can call in sick, too. Lets go back to bed,” Harry suggests, his palms turn into fists as he holds on tightly to Louis, watches as he bites his lip and looks at Harry. The no is there before he even says anything. 

“I - I want to Haz, you know I do. But works been hectic recently, and we’ve just got this new intern that I’m in charge of and she needs so much help, I- I really can’t. Not right now.” 

Harry breathes in deep and breathes out harsh. He nods, worries his bottom lip between his teeth before he takes a step back and lets go of Louis. “Right, of course, alright,” he stammers his way out of the kitchen and he can’t look at Louis through his wet eyes.

“Have a good day,” Harry mutters, his back to Louis. “I’ll see you tonight.” He feels Louis’ presence behind him, staring at him, almost moving, but barely so. It's all a question of will he? Till it's nothing at all because Harry hears the front door open and close and Louis feels a million miles away. 

-

The days feel like months. They feel like time slowing down and they feel like the sun burning white; summer is a haze of smoke and days alone and Harry waits every single night. Sometimes Louis is there and sometimes he’s not. Sometimes Louis will tug him in by the waist and mutter ‘I love you’ into his thighs and sometimes Louis won’t look at him at all. It’s inconsistent, a bump and a halt, and Harry thinks if these are the days that will make them stronger, then this better be worth it. 

-

It’s not worth it. Not when Louis comes home drunk and has no explanation.

“What the fuck?” Harry mutters when the door smashes open at three in the morning and the house rumbles awake. 

“What the fuck?” Harry whispers again when he sees Louis kneeling on the floor, one hand braced against the wall as he ducks his head down, almost in shame, but Harry knows it's just exhaustion.

Louis makes these slurs and these deep rumbles and he shakes like the winter moon. Harry wants to touch him, but he’s afraid of what Louis might say, or might do. Instead, he stands by the door, hands limp by his sides as his eyes adjust to the dark. 

Finally, after he’s done watching Louis flap around like a headless chicken, he walks over and raises a tentative hand to hold onto Louis bicep - to steady him. Louis’ shirt is warm with sweat and he smells of earth and alcohol and cologne. 

“Lou,” Harry whispers as he helps Louis stand steady on his feet. He pulls Louis into their room and all he can hear is the sound of Louis muttering nonsense into their dead living room. “C’mon Lou, lets get to bed.” Harry thinks he should be mad, he thinks he should drop Louis’ heavy weight on the ground and maybe even head over to Niall’s, but the thing is - he _loves_ Louis. He loves him too much to not care and he loves him enough to wait. So he helps Louis to their room and he helps Louis tug his shirt over his head to slip into a comfortable pajama top. 

“Haz,” Louis mutters, his breath a thick mixture of drowsiness and sleep. “Haz, I’m tired.” Harry wants to say that he is too, he wants to tell Louis that he’s being unfair, but at this point, it’ll go through one end and come out the other, so he just nods and reaches over to tug the bedside lamp off. “Go to sleep then,” he says. 

Louis doesn’t reply because Louis is already out. 

-

“So you wanna tell me about what happened last night?” Harry asks. There’s not a trace of negotiation, not a hint of allowance or fairness in his voice as he stands facing away from Louis in their kitchen the next morning. His palms are resting flat on the counter and he knows that Louis isn’t looking at him either as he prepares his tea. 

“No, I don’t _want_ to-” Louis starts as if this was some joke. Only Harry is so, so tired of laughing. 

“I don’t want you to be a shit about this Louis, I just want you to tell me what happened.” The words are poison sharp and lethal out of his mouth, but even then, they feel weak and dragged, as if it was taking everything Harry had to get them out. “Why did you come home drunk last night?”

Louis is silent for a period of time that feels like forever. The faucet is lined with water droplets that fall in pieces and the clock ticks like the hum of a dead bee. Finally, Louis says, “I went out with some of the guys at work for some drinks. I didn’t - I wasn’t planning on getting drunk, but I, this is going to sound like such shit, but I lost track of time and I ended up drinking too much and I’m sorry you had to see me like that, Haz,” Louis says but he doesn’t look at Harry because Harry is always able to tell when Louis looks at him, can always feel the weight, and right now, his gaze is not on him. “I’m really, honestly sorry.”

“That's not fair though, is it Louis?” Harry asks in a voice that sounds too tired to be his own. “I have to wait at home while you stay out and get drunk with an apology in the morning, that’s not - is that fair? Do you think?” 

Louis doesn’t say anything again and the silence of the kitchen is suffocating. It grabs Harry’s heart, squeezes it a couple times, then swallows it whole with no problem. It feels heavy and hot on Harry’s skin. “No, I-” Louis says, “I don’t think that's fair - I _know_ it's not - it's not fair on you.”

Harry breathes out. “What happened?” He means last night and maybe he means all the nights before, but especially the drunk part. 

“Nothing.” This time Louis’ reply comes instantly. Finally, Harry feels the weight of Louis’ stare on him and not a second later, a hand curled around his wrist turns him around. Louis’ hair is wild and angry and his eyelashes flutter heavily. “Nothing happened. I’m an idiot, had too many glasses, and I - I’m sorry. Nothing happened.”

“But that is something, Louis. Something happened,” Harry insists, though he’s not sure what answer he’s truly looking for. “Why didn’t you call? Or send a text?”

This time, Louis’ face contorts guiltily, finally. “Were you waiting up, again?” He holds Harry’s wrist like it’s fragile, cupped between his warm, summer hands and he looks at Harry as if he’s fragile, wrapped in the morning of their home and waiting for answers from Louis. 

“No,” Harry whispers because now Louis seems so close. His voice is carried by the heavy air of the kitchen. “No, I - I fell asleep after midnight.” They stay silent for a second longer, Louis running his thumb along the pale skin of Harry’s wrist, feeling the beat of his heart and the bumps of his veins. “I was worried about you, y’know?” Harry says softly after a while. “It’s - it’s just I have to always wonder. What’s he doing tonight? Will he be home for dinner? Will he come home at all?” 

“Stop it,” Louis says then, frowning like he has the right to be upset. “Don’t say shit like that, I’ll - I’ll always come home, alright?” 

Harry scoffs then, slow in the white lights. “Come home drunk?”

“Come _home_. I’ll always come home,” Louis insists, stepping just that much closer as if it will convince Harry even more, breathing in his air and holding his skin as if it belongs to him. 

Harry can’t look at him because then he knows he’ll give in. But in the end - he does. He looks right into his eyes and he breathes out an “okay” and then they’re kissing in their kitchen, with the cereal and the tea and the fighting. 

It’s like - Louis’ apologized and Harry’s willing to look past it, but nothing feels resolved at all. 

-

_July, summer._

“Fuck, Lou, faster.” It’s half past eleven and Harry’s laying flat on their mattress, body warm and flushed in the heat of their bedroom as Louis pounds into him in a constant speed. 

He lets out a scream he doesn’t mean and Louis doesn’t say a word, grunts a few times, but doesn’t whisper back into his ear. Harry tries harder. “Ngh, so good, Lou. Fuck me so well,” he pants and he hopes and he hopes and he hopes Louis would just mutter a ‘yeah’ or a ‘always’ or even a ‘baby, you’re doing so well’ but just like but just like it has been the past few months, Louis stays quiet, pushes into Harry and doesn’t look him in the eye. 

“Close?” Louis finally asks, his voice a grunt, low and soft against Harry wet skin. 

He isn’t. Not really. It's hard to get off when your boyfriend won’t even look at you, much less kiss you or touch your properly while having sex, but Harry nods. He knows Louis has had a long day and if there’s one thing he can offer, it’s release. “Yeah, you can - you can come, babe. Come in me,” he urges. His cock lays solid and fat against his stomach, begging to be touched, to be cared for, but Harry trusts Louis, and he knows Louis won’t leave him hanging. 

Louis spills into him, white hot and burning wet, breathing rigid as he grunts into Harry’s neck and holds onto Harry hips, a touch familiar from bruises, claims,  before completely letting go. Harry waits. 

Louis pulls himself out and flops onto his side, hand lazily coming up to wrap around Harry cock, wrist tugging once, twice, till Harry spills over his stomach with a dry cry. Louis wouldn’t leave him hanging. 

Now comes the awkward part and the only reason it's awkward is because it's not supposed to be awkward. They lay on their backs, watching the dull ceiling stay still and Harry doesn’t know what to do, is the thing. There’s a silence that consumes the room, is the thing. Louis isn’t even _touching_ him, isn’t even pulling him into his chest, close to his body, is the thing and Harry knows better than to push him farther than he wants to go. Except he doesn’t because sleeping _together_ , around each other, shouldn’t be _pushing_. 

He’s sticky and he’s covered in his own come, but all he wants is to go to sleep and all he wants is for Louis to fall asleep beside him, so he carefully turns around and he nudges closer to Louis. Louis himself looks tired; creases by his eyes that aren’t caused by smiling are visible in the dim lighting. His scruff is thick and lazy and he stares ahead; stares away from Harry. This doesn’t feel right. 

Harry urges even closer, rests a hand on Louis’ chest to draw his attention and when Louis doesn’t even blink, he realizes he isn’t going to get anything more. So he takes it upon himself to curl tight, small in the white sheets and pale against Louis’ skin, and tuck himself beside Louis, an arm thrown over his stomach to cling to him tight, holding on and never, ever letting go. 

He isn’t going to go to sleep, he doesn’t want to. He wants to feel Louis’ heartbeat and he wants to breathe Louis in, but even he gets tired after a long day of questioning and hoping and trying, so he can’t help it when his eyelids fall his mind starts to shut.

Right before though, right before he completely closes his eyes, he feels Louis wrap his own arm around him and he doesn’t know if Louis is pulling away farther or trying to come back close.

 

-

Mornings are the quietest because mornings mean something new. A new day. A new start. Nothing changes. It makes things sad. 

Harry slips out of bed, movement soft and subtle because Louis is still asleep, rolled into his side and snoring in the slightest. Harry contemplates whether or not he should try and pull Louis back in; make him stay and morning, and maybe let them talk away the heaviness in their hearts.But as soon as the thought comes, it goes. Louis wouldn’t - he wouldn’t want to talk. He’s busy and he has work and he needs his sleep and Harry should go make breakfast. 

(He should go make breakfast, which Louis barely looks at, barely touches as he moves to put his shoes on, but breakfast all the same because that is something Harry won’t change, even if everything else does.) 

He paddles down the hall, their flat a burning hue of summer sunlight and reflecting glass, footsteps light as the wind as the silence of the flat turns cold and bitter. The aircon has been left on.

He turns it off because who else will, then moves to the kitchen to make toast. They’re out of milk, so pancakes are a no, and there’s not point in even trying for pancakes because they will go untouched. Harry nudges the toaster, he turns the kettle on and he ignores the throb in his arse and in his heart because everything feels so empty. 

( _Honeymoon days don’t last forever, you will find a time where you’ll have to try._ )

Louis has promised him the world. Promised him a wedding by the corner and a house filled with kids. Louis has created dreams about love and life and winter in the rain and a summer in their skin and he’s promised Harry a sky filled with stars and a heart full of gold. He’s promised Harry the world; all Harry needs is him. All he feels is Louis slipping. 

As expected, Louis slips into the kitchen a half hour later, showered and dressed. He sips his tea, mumbles about eating something at work, and moves towards the door before Harry can even breathe. Right before he walks out, Harry catches him by his arm, stops him from moving further away without fulfilling the promise; every promise. 

“Have a good day, yeah?” he mutters, a hand coming up to fix Louis’ tie that doesn’t really need fixing. Louis’ face is grim, unmoved. He isn’t even being subtle about it and Harry can’t even comment on it. When Louis fails to say something back, Harry leans in closer, breath hot against Louis’ neck, “I love you,” he whispers, kissing the skin and closing his eyes to stop the warmth creeping in from behind as a form of tears. 

Louis pulls back. He nods, as if he replies at all, mutters “goodbye,” and leaves. Harry doesn’t start crying till he’s sat in the dining table, alone and surrounded by toast and butter and tea. 

The dining table was never meant for one. Eating together, living together, _being_ together wasn’t meant for one. 

-

(“I’ll find the stars for you,” Louis says, a grin in his voice, “I’ll search and search and reach to give you the sun and the stars and the world, you’ll see.”

Harry doesn’t understand. He doesn’t need any of those things. “Really?” he questions. The sky is warm, falling in pieces and falling around them. “All that for me?”

“Yup,” Louis promises. He’s always been big; wide and happy and full of life. Promises by his lips like curses, too good to be true. They were just kids, growing in size, and growing in love, running through clouds and chasing their nights. So gone for each other that nothing else mattered. “I’ll do whatever you want, whenever, and I’ll never let you go.”

“Alright,” Harry nods. “I’ll never stop loving you in return.”)

-

Harry still acts as if they were the same. He calls the boys, tells them they should eat dinner together, maybe meet up at Zayn and Liam’s and then he calls Louis. Uses the invitation to Zayn and Liam’s as an excuse to ask him how his day is, how he is. He gets a sure and a fine and the beep of the phone in respond. 

They meet up with the boys, hug and laugh and Harry tries his best to make every word coming out of his mouth sound genuine, but as he watches Louis ignore him, as he watches Louis watch the match playing on telly, he can’t help but think _why aren’t I snuggled up by his side? When did that stop being a natural thing?_

Zayn catches him when he’s by the sink after having a dinner of lasagna, cleaning the dishes. “Haz?” he mutters softly by the door, the others all in the living room, “are you and Lou alright?” 

The question catches Harry off guard and he freezes up, hands under the running water. Zayn moves until he’s standing directly beside Harry, reaching over to turn the tap off. “Harry,” he calls as if Harry’s been out flying, trying to pull him back. 

“We’re,” Harry starts, “we’re _fine_ , Zayn.” This is followed by a forced laugh and Zayn knows him too well because right after, Zayn pulls him into a hug. “I love you, yeah? Love you lots.” And Harry loves him too, of course, he just doesn’t understand why Zayn looks so sad. So sad for _him_. 

-

The door closes softly behind them and the darkness of their living room steadies Harry’s heartbeat. If Louis can’t see him properly, maybe he’ll be able to ignore Louis’ complete lack of interest. He’ll be able to hide it better in the dark. 

Louis reaches for a switch and Harry moves softly closer to the kitchen as his vision floods with the muted lights of the living room. Even as simple as it was, the silence was much harder to ignore. Finally, Harry turns to face Louis who stands stiffly by the sofa. This doesn’t feel like _them_. 

_Them_ would’ve been giggles breathed into each others mouths as they stumbled through the dark and up to their bedroom. _Them_ would’ve been the need to feel each other close. _Them_ wouldn’t be so distant. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Harry asks, his voice calm as he tries his best to coax Louis into at the very least look at him. He doesn’t like this - doesn’t like how it feels as if they’re witnessing the silence of a phone call from a thousand miles away when they were stood in the same living room they made love in. 

Louis shakes his head and doesn’t even look at him. Another part of Harry lets go. 

“Something to drink?” Harry desperately grasps for air to keep their flame alive. This doesn’t feel like the first time. But when Louis mutters a low, “No,” it feels like the past few months all over again.

“Wanna watch another movie?” Harry offers. He can hear his own voice catch and that's dumb- why would he cry now? Louis was here. They were here. They were still together, it was alright. “Or are you too tired? Wanna head to bed?” 

Louis looks away then, as if Harry’s efforts burned him, made him uncomfortable. Harry just wonders why it feels he is the only one trying. “Think I’ll take the couch tonight,” he says and Harry knows what this means. I want to stay farther away from you, I want you to give me space. But Harry doesn’t understand that because all that’s been of their relationship recently is space.

He doesn’t understand because tonight was _good_ , right? Tonight they went out and they sat through dinner and they met up with friends and tonight was _good_. Why does Louis want it to end like all the nights before? Like all the bad nights?  

“No, but,” Harry frowns, fighting his sore throat away. “Why? I mean, we can just-” he doesn’t finish as he watches Louis sigh. He can feel another answer that he won’t like, so he drops his pride, he drops everything and just looks ahead at that _them_ they once were. “Come to bed tonight,” he whispers, moving close yet not enough to touch. His voice is pleading; requesting. It’s asking Louis to try. “Let’s just - just you and me, let’s go to bed, yeah?” He reaches for Louis’ hand and holds it ever so gently in his own. The skin feels like the past few months; cold and unwelcome. Not like home. 

“I,” Louis stars. Harry can feel him pull away before he even goes to make a move. “I think it's best if we - If I sleep here tonight.” And then he pulls away for sure and Harry quietly as he moves behind him and comes back minutes later with a pillow and a blanket. 

This isn’t _them_.

_Them_ would cuddle with the blanket together on the couch. _Them_ wouldn’t ask to sleep together, next to each other. _Them_ wouldn’t be like this. 

They - what they are now - is not _them_. 

“Why, Lou?” he asks. He doesn’t even care that he sounds defeated; weak and out of energy. “Why not?” he asks as Louis moves past him. 

Louis stiffens, but doesn’t turn around. He stiffens but he doesn’t drop the pillow and his sweats. He stiffens but doesn’t turn around to reassure Harry; to tell him they were alright. He stiffens and he mutters, “I think we’ll both sleep better like this,” and the thing is - they won’t. Or at least, _Harry_ won’t. Harry’s never slept better without Louis. That has never been _them_.

-

The sky falls one July night and the screaming come in roads never before seen.

“What the _fuck_ do you mean you have to leave? What does that _mean?_ ” Harry yells across the living room. Louis takes it, lets Harry get angry, and angers him some more by just standing there in his shirt and trousers and tie and still, placid face. 

“That means they need me to go over to New York for a couple weeks. It’s a really big-” Louis starts to say in a voice too calm to be his own, his breathing far too balanced. 

“I don’t care if it’s a ‘really big opportunity’ for your fucking company, you aren’t leaving,” Harry says - he states. “You aren’t leaving.” There are so many things that hold them together; their memories, their words, their love. Harry used to think they weren’t together because it was the only way to sustain their relationship, he thought that they were together because that was their way of life. But now, when he thinks of Louis leaving him, leaving them, it honestly scares him because he doesn’t think they’re strong enough to survive together through that. 

“You can’t decide that for me, Harry,” Louis says then with a frown, stepping closer as Harry stands his ground. “If I - if this seems like a good opportunity for the company, for me, I want - I was planning on taking it. And I thought you support me on it.”

Harry wants to laugh because can’t Louis see? This was not so much of Harry not supporting his career, this was Harry doing everything he possibly could to keep them together; to keep everything from going to ashes, falling past the flames. “What about me, then, Louis?” he asks, challenges. “What about us?”

“What _about_ us, Harry?” Louis looks like he’s getting madder and madder by the second and the air in the room is going to kill somebody; it's that thick and heavy and acidic. 

“If you leave, what will that mean for us? Because this isn’t for a couple days, Louis. This is for _weeks_. And you _know_ that this is just for you. Not for me, not for us, not for each other. This is for you,” Harry says, an accusing finger directed at Louis as wet hot tears begin to gather around his eyes. 

“And is that wrong?” Louis finally says and there it is - there it is. Louis has always been selfish, in his own ways. Always loved, but never completely. Always given, but never without something to take. “This could be good for both of us, Harry. For our _future_.”

“How,” Harry starts, voice going below a whisper, “can you think about our future, when our _present_ is falling to pieces?” The words come out slow, soft, but they settle like a bomb. The sounds of the night, of falling water droplets and the air con blowing wind, circulate the room as if it were trying to push all these painful feelings away.

Louis looks like Harry’s slapped him, like Harry’s burned him down and taken everything away from him when it feels the other way around. “What the fuck are you on about, Harry? Why - why’re you saying things like that?”

“I’m saying it because it's true, Lou.” The pet name comes out so ironically, Harry wants to apologize and take it back. “I’m saying it because if you leave - Louis, if you leave, there is going to be nothing left.” He wants Louis to reassure him, like the nights before, he wants Louis to reach out and pull him in. Tell him he’s worrying for no reason and that this is all some stupid joke. Instead, Louis looks _angry_.

“So If I decide to do something for my career, for our future, it’ll make me the bad guy? It’ll break us up?” he seethes the words out like it's electric and true, looking at Harry with some sort of fire. 

Harry looks at him, desperate and scared. He swallows back the words he wants to get out, the ‘yes, Louis!’ and instead he shakes his head. “I don’t - I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t want you to go. I don’t _care_ if you missing this opportunity leaves us bankrupt. I don’t _know_.” The words travel to Louis as Harry turns to head back into their room, arms coming up to hug himself because he knows Louis won’t be doing any comforting tonight. The air of their apartment is cold and unwelcome, rigid against Harry’s skin. Their bedroom is dark, curtains drawn and bed white and empty. As Harry slowly settles himself on the mattress, trying so hard to even out his breathing, he hears the front door slam open then shut and then he just gives up on composure completely.

-

The windows are burnt blue and bright, the sun playing its cards and shining down on Harry’s face. Louis hasn’t come home since last night, after they’d fought because of the New York thing and after Harry’d realized nothing was the same (or came to terms with, because he’d always sort of known it.)

Harry thinks, drawing patterns of ambiguous figures on the glass, that maybe if he’d just listened to Louis, tried to understand how much the opportunity probably means to him, and had offered to compromise, Louis would still be here. 

Harry isn’t worried about that though. He knows Louis will come back. He’s just worried about how and at what state he’ll be back. He’s just worried about what he’ll say, what they’ll say and whether or not Louis will want to sleep on the couch again. 

The phone rings, a vibrant sound matching the vibrant weather, contrasting with the colours of Harry’s heart. He lets himself hope for a second and then two that it's Louis calling from the other end, and with the hope in mind and the reality forgotten in the back of his hand, he runs for the phone and. And it’s Zayn. 

He takes a deep breath. “Hi,” he whispers. 

“Is he home yet?” Zayn sounds firm, worry laced somewhere between the seams, but firm nonetheless. Harry’d called him this morning, crying into the cold phone and gripping onto his shirt because he felt like he was drowning. Now it’s afternoon, Harry’s showered, but Louis is still not home yet.

“No, not yet,” Harry starts, “but I’m sure he will be soon.”

“This isn’t fair,” Zayn says. “You know that, don’t you Harry?” 

_Ha,_ Harry thinks, _that was exactly what I was yelling at him the night before_. “Yeah, I know.” And then, “I love him, though.”

“Of course, I know,” Zayn sighs. “But he’s - he’s wrong, alright? You both need to talk, figure something out. Don’t let this just go.”

“I won’t,” Harry promises. He feels tired, wants some sleep because he got none last night. “Bye, Zee. Thank you.”

“No problem, Haz, take care of yourself, yeah?” 

The line cuts dead and Harry waits. 

-

The door opens before the sun comes up and Harry’s got a headache. The combination couldn’t have been worse, but as he groggily steps outside the room to see who has entered their house, he sees a figure, hunched, sitting on the sofa in the dark. He knows instantly who it is and he wants to start crying all over again. “Lou?”

There is a short, sharp moment where everything stops, and then Louis stands up and turns around to face Harry. It’s too dark to see his face, but Harry knows. He knows something is wrong. “Harry,” Louis breathes, gasping almost as he walks towards him, “Harry.” 

Harry’s still standing by the door, inanimate and unmoved, standing in his loose shirt and messed up curls, eyes red and tired and Louis walks up to him, as if they weren’t even on proper speaking terms a week ago, and holds his face, as if he thinks Harry’s going to go away, disappear into elements of stars and sky and never come back. He holds Harry tight, hands cradling his face, eyes darting through every patch of skin and Harry’s never seen Louis so _panicked_. 

“Harry, fuck,” he says and Harry wants to keep him close, wants to tell him it's okay, that they’re okay because he’s here, but Louis isn’t done. “I screwed up, baby,” Louis’ face is shaking as Harry holds onto him. “I messed up so bad.” There’s this fear in Louis’ eyes that makes Harry pull back and suddenly - he knows. It's cold, the realization, sudden. He knows and yet he doesn’t want to believe it for a second. 

“What’s wrong, Lou?” he says and flinches when his voice cracks. He isn’t even questioning where Louis has been, doesn’t care about that, only that Louis is here and something is _wrong_. It’s not true, a part of him yells, it’s not like that.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m- I love-”

“What wrong, Louis?” He asks again and he can’t stop the hot wetness of tears pooling around his eyes. It’s not true, he believes, it’s not like that. 

“I messed up, I-” Louis squeezes his eyes shut and Harry can see tears clinging to his eyelashes. He’s too close. “You’re going to hate me, Harry,” he says, “I can’t- I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t have to say it for Harry to understand and a sharp, acid kind of fear takes over his body. It’s not true, he desperately reminds himself, it’s not like that, Louis loves you.

“What did you do?” Harry whispers. He needs to hear it. He needs to hear Louis tell him he’s wrong.

But Louis doesn’t. Just like all the times he’s needed reassurance and love and commitment recently, Louis just stares at him with his wet eyes and his selfish heart and Harry knows - he knows and he doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t want to believe it. 

“No,” he whispers. “No, you _didn’t_.”

Louis sobs brokenly, suddenly he’s also crying, and Harry wants to yell. Wants to tell him to stop it and that he’s being so _stupid,_ crying out as if it was suitable, and that it isn’t true, none of this is true, because Louis _loves_ him. 

“But I did,” Louis says in a voice that isn’t his own. “And I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for Harry, moves to come closer but Harry can’t have that. They’re too close already and he’s going numb and he doesn’t _understand_. 

“No, you didn’t,” Harry insists, pushing Louis’ hands away as it comes to touch his face. Too close and it can’t be true. “You didn’t - _you didn’t_. You wouldn’t do that.” It’s a statement. It’s supposed to be true and yet it's not. Harry feels the hot wetness turn to flames. He can see their love dancing dangerously in it. “You wouldn’t do that to us,” he voice is bridging a cry, a yell, a promise. “You wouldn’t do that to _me_.”

“Harry, please baby, it didn’t mean-” Louis is reaching for him again, hands coming closer and now, up close, they look like heavy betrayal. Harry can’t have him this close, so moves back, flinches away from Louis as he comes to touch him. “ _Stop it_ , Louis,” he says, his voice sounds like it's dying, but he’s not going to stop. “This isn’t fucking funny, stop playing around Louis, fucking _stop_ it.” The walls are caving, turning into claws, trying to grab Harry, trying to pin him down and turn him into flying matter. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Harry, please just listen to me, I’m so sorry.” Louis sounds desperate, as if Harry’s slipping from his fingers but honestly, that’s the way Harry’s been feeling for the past few weeks. Only now, it’s like there’s not a part of Louis left in his hand. 

“No, Louis,” Harry says, his voice getting louder, breaking. “You didn’t fucking cheat on me, you love me. Do you understand? You wouldn’t do that, so stop _lying_ to me.” 

Louis sobs loudly, a sound wet and ugly, as if a storm has been set in their house, flushing everything down and away. “Harry, my baby,” he says, reaching to touch Harry’s face, his hand, him, but as Harry realizes that he has no where else to run, he shoves Louis farther away, his hands feeling like bricks as he pushes against Louis’ chest with as much strength left in him, trying to create space to breathe. “I did, Harry. Fuck, I’m not - I’m not lying baby, I’m so sorry.” How many times will Louis have to say that until it's alright for Harry to forgive him is the first thing he thinks and then, as the words settle into the radio silence of the room and into the mess inside Harry’s head, he gets it. 

He gets it. And that’s it. 

“No,” he whispers. “No, Louis, you- you wouldn’t _do_ that, it doesn’t make _sense_ , I thought-” and as his voice catches, he drops his gaze to the floor, he feels as if he’s going to fall next. 

Louis touches his arm and he lets him do so. Doesn’t move away and doesn’t do anything because the world, as he knows it, is falling. It’s like - it’s like the feeling of knowing everything is going to end. Being told by somebody you have a few hours, a couple days to live, and then you’re done. Except Harry hasn’t gotten any warning. This is him completely free falling, in hopes of someone out there willing to catch him, but facing the reality that it’s finished. That he’s alone because the one person he relied on, depended on, trusted in, let him down. Cheated on him, damnit. 

And that isn’t fair. None of this is fair. He looks up and he’s so, so angry and he’s so, so scared and everything is a blur of red and blue and everything feels finished. Louis is looking at him, finally at nothing but him, but right now, the last thing he wants is Louis here, is Louis anywhere near him. 

He wants to ask who and when and why. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to know anything because he knows enough. Louis has done it. It’s been done. That's it. 

“Who’s gonna leave then?” he asks, slow and soft, a scratch in his voice as Louis’ eyes widen. “Either me or you and whoever it is, where are we gonna go? Where is home now, Louis? Where do I go?” 

“No,” Louis starts, coming even closer when Harry just wants him a million years away. “No one. No one has to leave, Harry, please. Lets - lets talk, please, together. No one has to go anywhere, no one is going anywhere-”

“No, Louis,” Harry snaps. “No. We aren’t _talking_. We aren’t _together_. If you won’t go, then I will because I sure as hell don’t want to be anywhere near you, god, I hate you, Louis.” He’s crying, pulling away from Louis and crying and crying and crying as if that’s all he’s ever known. He’s so angry, he can see a fire by his eyes and he feels so, so betrayed that standing next to Louis is like standing next to whoever he cheated on Harry with. “You’re right, Louis. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

“Harry,” Louis whispers, his voice shaken, scared. His blue eyes scream, beg, they don’t want to hear this. They never want to hear this. 

“I _hate_ you,” Harry replies. “Do you hear me? I _hate_ you. _I. Hate. You_. So fuck you. _Fuck_ you, I don’t even care Louis, I _hate_ you.” With every word, he pushes Louis. He wants to hurt him, wants to see him burn and feel how much pain he’s putting Harry through. 

God, he hates Louis so, so much.

“I hate you because you hurt me - because you’re hurting me all the time and that isn’t fair!” Harry finally shouts. He’s going to wake the neighbors, the street. He’s going to wake the sun and he’s going to wake the world, but he doesn’t care because he wants everyone to know Louis Tomlinson has broken him. “That isn’t fair because I did everything I could to keep us together and you went ahead and fucked it up, as if it meant nothing, and that isn’t fair!”

He feels so cold. The apartment is dark, the breeze picks up. Outside is waking up, as if shaken by Harry’s words, the sun a scary glow. He hates Louis and it's weird because he doesn’t know how to hate Louis, only love him, but he’s sure this heavy feeling in his stomach and this light feeling in his heart has something to do with it. 

“I love you,” Louis finally says. Harry can finally see his face as time decides to let itself be seen. Louis’ hair is a mess, his face is splotchy and his eyes are red and Harry can’t believe, can’t stomach the thought of someone else touching him, being with him. Someone that isn’t Harry.

He looks young and childish, either way, broken down by lightning while traveling the world. Harry probably isn’t any better, chasing after him like a shadow. “I love you, Harry. I love you and and I’m so sorry.” 

“I don’t care,” Harry insists; he lies. “I don’t care. I’ll have my things packed and I’ll leave, I don’t care, Louis.” He moves backwards and this feels wrong. He can’t leave because this isn’t just _any other_ couple, this is him and Louis. Harry and Louis. Years down their road, after everything and nothing, together like the sky and the sun and stringed together by their skin, it feels wrong, and it _can’t_ be, but it _is_. 

He turns to walk into the room, barely making anything out by his tear streaked vision, mind racing with thoughts such as, how am I going to live without him? Who will I have breakfast with? Who will I love? But a hand comes up, holding him back one more time, and Harry stills in his touch. It’s not familiar anymore. The Louis he fell in love with all those years ago wouldn’t do something like this, wouldn’t hurt him, but he has, so that means that this new Louis isn’t somebody he knows. He still stays. 

“Don’t-” Louis starts and Harry thinks he’s going to start talking about ‘working things out’ or something, but then he’s moving forward, past Harry. “I’ll - I’ll leave, Harry. If, If that’s what you want, if that’s what is to happen, then I’ll leave.” His voice is shaken, tired, bent down and on its knees when _he_ was the one who did all the hurting. 

“This isn’t me having a choice, Louis,” Harry says. “This is the conclusion. Don’t make it seem like I had some sort of say in anything, as if this-” he points to the space between them, “happening is my fault. This is _you_. We could’ve had everything, we had all these plans, all these dreams you promised me and _you_ ruined everything, this is _you_. This is what you wanted.” He wants Louis to listen to him, wants him to understand what he’s putting Harry through, wants Louis to drown himself in the guilt and the worry and the pain and the helpless feeling. As if anything he says or does now will change nothing. 

“This _isn’t_ , Harry,” Louis says, not turning to look at him, head bowed. “It was a mistake, Harry. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t regret it. I love you. Only you. That's it.”

“That's not it,” Harry whispers. “You - you- you were with someone else, _that isn’t love._ ” He wants to start yelling again, but he’s sure he’s going to rise up in flames and fall to his knees if this keeps going. His legs won’t hold him for much longer, he can feel his body begin to fail on him. Everything is feeling heavy, falling and there are clouds and fear all clogging up inside Harry’s head and inside Harry heart. It’s over and that's it. “Leave. Take your shit and never come back, do you hear me? I never want you here _ever_. I hate you, Louis, I hate you and I don’t want you near me,” he says. The words coming out without getting the go sign from Harry’s head, falling out and being angry, angry, angry. 

“Okay,” Louis almost whimpers, as if he has the right to. “Alright. I’ll - “

“You’ll leave. You’ll _leave_ me because you’ve _hurt_ me, okay?” Harry doesn’t even look at him. He turns to face the open window, the morning that has just witnessed a fallen love, the air feels new. 

“Okay, Harry,” Louis whispers one last time, speaking his name like it hurts to say it. “Okay.”

And that's it. 

-

_August, summer._

The stars taste like humid leaves, shining down on Harry’s face, dotted like eyes and bright like it’s glow. He closes his eyes, presses his head to his arm, tries his best to even his breathing. The days have felt like years.

Sometimes he’ll wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, face wet with tears, in hopes that it was all a bad dream. This summer and their time apart, it’s all been a bad dream and Louis will be sleeping right beside him, arms open for comfort. But every time Harry would turn, he’d be faced with the empty bed, body-less and so, so cold and he’d just start to sob again because it's not a bad dream. It’s reality and it feels like a nightmare. 

That isn’t even the worst part. It’s when he reaches for his phone, fully ready to ask Louis about his day, and he realizes that that isn’t something he can do anymore. The worst part is that Harry misses him and nothing is ever going to be complete. 

Zayn comes over every other day to look after Harry, make sure he’s eating and drinking and breathing. Sometimes Harry would wish Zayn would just stop. It’s not like Louis’ absence is anything new; it’s not like something he’s never handled before. This absence is just permanent. 

But Zayn comes over, like he’s over now, making tea before bed. 

“Here we go, Haz,” he says from behind Harry, coming over to the balcony with two mugs, holding it out for Harry to take. 

“Thanks,” Harry whispers. He’s been quiet recently, out of focus, out of point, standing as if he didn’t matter. The days have felt like years. 

Zayn stands next to him, silent, just letting him know he’s _there_. When he moves, it’s in slow motion. The seconds pass like dead heartbeats and it’s been hard. It’s been hard and it’s felt like nothing. Harry doesn’t even know if he’s angry or sad and just given up, he just knows that it hurts. 

He thinks of who it might’ve been. Who Louis wanted enough to forget about Harry. Who managed to make Louis forget that he was even with someone else. The thought makes him sick, makes him want to start a storm. Who else does Louis want?

Not that it matters anymore. Because it’s over; they’re done. Louis hasn’t spoken to him, left the night all those days before to a place Harry has stopped worrying over and Harry doesn’t want to speak to him. There’s nothing to really talk about. It’s just empty promises, hearts broken and given up. It’s nothing. He feels inconsolable, but he’s not looking for comfort, he just wants to be left as he is.

“Wanna head to bed?” Zayn asks, nudging him with his shoulder. Sometimes he sleeps over at Harry’s because he knows Harry wakes up most nights in a wave of tears and sometimes he just pulls Harry into a tight, secure hug. Harry tells him he’s okay, that he should go home to Liam, but Zayn just shakes his head and says, “Liam understands you need someone right now. I’m not going anywhere.” Harry knows that just like him, Zayn hasn’t forgiven Louis and in some ways, that isn’t fair. He’ll tell Zayn that they should still stay friends, even though the thought of Louis living his life with their friends, moving on and staying happy makes him feel nauseous. Zayn would just shake his head, “You’ve made me promise not to hurt him. Forgiving him is out of question. What he’s done - what he did Harry - it isn’t fair. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Not sleepy,” Harry replies even though his bones feel a hundred years old. His face is always warm from crying and the stinting by his eyes have gone numb. “But tired. So yes, I wanna go to bed.” He drinks his tea, lets it warm his curves and his blood, then turns around to face Zayn as if he was expecting him to leave. “You should go home. It’s Liam’s birthday month.”

Zayn scoffs. “Liam’s birthday is not for another fifteen days. Plus, he’s coming over tomorrow morning.” They walk back into the house, closing the balcony door behind them. It’s quiet inside. Warm and empty. 

“Right. Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Harry nods. It’s things like this - he forgets the time and he forgets to eat. Spaces out sometimes and then just starts crying. Maybe Zayn has the right to be worried, but Harry just thinks it’s natural. He’s allowed to be sad in his own ways. 

“Yeah, it is. You sure you wanna go to bed? There’s this new movie out we can go watch, or we could go out for McDonalds - we haven’t been late night fast food hunting in days -”

“No thanks, Zee,” Harry cuts off. “‘M feeling a little tired. You go ahead.”

Zayn snorts. “Right. Go watch a movie or have McDonalds alone. Because that sounds like a lot of fun.” Harry wants to apologize. Wants Zayn to know he appreciates him, loves him, but he’s just so tired. He hopes the half shrug is enough.

“I’m sorry, Zayn. Just not - don’t really feel like going out.” There’s this understanding between them that allows Harry to speak without explaining himself, wander around aimlessly and break into sudden tears without having to explain why. He thinks he sometimes abuses the privilege; worries Zayn and the boys and his mum so much, but it's like the understanding has given him an out to that as well. 

“Alright,” Zayn says, “let’s just head to bed then.”

It’s been this way for the past month.

-

Harry has to keep going, is the thing. So he walks outside the house a week later, hair washed and shirt clean, eyes too dry to form tears, and walks down the street to the shop to buy food. The air feels light as he passes the corners of the street, of his home. It feels familiar; open. The florist smiles when Harry passes her shop and Harry manages a small tug of lips, but moves ahead. 

When he’s alone, often times he thinks about Louis, and that isn’t much of a shock. He thinks about Louis and he thinks where they went wrong and he thinks who Louis cheated on him with and why, and he throws his cup against the wall to be able to hear anything aside from the burning truth, and he thinks that he knows why, he just doesn’t understand it.

Today though, an August afternoon that feels like warm water clinging to eyelashes, feels empty of those thoughts, he feels they have little meaning because they won’t change anything. He buys vegetables and chicken and he tries his best not to cry when he almost picks up the cookie dough ice cream because that was never for him, always for someone he can’t be around anymore. 

-

When Liam comes over, wide smile as if he didn’t know better, Harry knows he’s going to have to give up the mutual understanding and do whatever it is Liam is here for. 

“How’ve you been, Harry?” he asks, stepping into the apartment and settling down on the couch. Harry loves Liam, really does, but he’s just not in the mood to really _talk_. 

“Good, fine, thank you,” Harry says, standing daintily by the couch, a human body covered in a large sweater that swallows him up and burps him out. “And you? How are you, Liam?”

“Well,” Liam starts and Harry can tell he’s going for the animated approach because he stretches his legs out and tucks his arms behind his head. “I’ve been good, work’s been good, life’s been good... but maybe I’m just saying that because my birthday is approaching, but, y’know, birthday’s are an excuse to happiness,” Liam says, words coming out of his mouth faster than Harry can process them. 

Harry frowns and gently sits down on the other couch, legs tired of carrying him around the same empty apartment. “I guess, in some cases, yeah,” he agrees. 

“Right? So speaking about my birthday, and don’t take this the wrong way, I definitely came here to catch up with you, but I was thinking of having a little party,” Liam says and doesn’t stop for Harry’s refusal. “Nothing big, just a couple friends, and since you’re one of my best mates, Harry, I think you should definitely come. Because I’m inviting you. This is your invitation. I’m actually here just to tell you to come because you can’t say no to me, right?” Yeah. Probably. 

Harry sighs. “Yeah, alright. On your birthday, then?”

Liam looks surprised for maybe half a second, but then he grins. “Yeah. Come at five and we’ll get drunk off our arse’s.”

-

The night tastes like smoke and burnt leaves, a dim haze of stars and shine. Harry wears a sheer shirt and he sprays cologne to hide behind. The drive to Zayn and Liam’s is short, but he sits in his car for a long time because he knows, he knows he’s going to see Louis there and - and it’s not going to be easy. 

“Harry!” Liam yells, probably already drunk, when Harry steps into their flat, head ducked. Liam is all happy smiles and loose shirt, beer in his hand as he pulls Harry into a hug. “You made it!” 

“Yeah, course I did,” Harry smiles, handing over his wrapped present and kissing Liam on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Li.” 

“Oh no,” Liam gasps as if he wasn’t expecting a gift. “You shouldn’t have-”

“Shut up Liam, you know I had to.” He listens to himself and he sounds so free, so fine. And it's like - everyone labels Harry as the worst actor, but he himself has never had to force out so many emotions before, and he thinks no, my acting is only bad when you know it isn’t real. 

But then Zayn comes up behind him, a hand on his back like a blanket of warmth, and he whispers into his ear, “I’m glad you came, Haz. Liam really wanted you here,” and then he thinks : I’m an open book.

Harry nods, smiles past Zayn to look around the room and sees some people he knows and some people he remembers in blurry, out of focus memories. He tells himself he isn’t looking for Louis, but he knows better. “He’s not here yet,” Zayn says quietly as Liam moves towards the kitchen.

“No, I-” Harry starts before retreats and decides it's no use. “Alright. But he’s - he’s coming, isn’t he?”

“Liam and him- all of us, we’ve been mates for the longest time, I- yeah,” Zayn says and Harry doesn’t blame him or Liam for this for one second. Louis has every right to be here. 

“No, I, he should be here. For Liam, he should be here,” Harry says, nodding along to his words though he knows a part of him wishes the world would just collectively hate Louis. But then again, no matter how much he yells it out and promises himself in front of the mirror, he himself could probably never hate Louis. It would be like hating himself; hating love. 

“Let’s go get a drink, yeah?” Zayn suggest, pushing him towards the kitchen. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

Harry watches the night move on, watches people laugh and watches Liam age. He takes an occasional sip of cold beer, but doesn’t have any intentions to get drunk. He lets the bright light of the house blind him, make him believe stars have come down to kiss him and he basks in the corner of his heart, in the corner of everyone’s eyes. Mostly he watches time go and he thinks of heading home, getting some sleep, maybe putting on a movie and finishing up an email for work. He busies himself with thoughts and he sees Andy, Liam’s good friend, doing body shots off of someone and he thinks the world is going blank and turning acid. 

Louis comes in a couple minutes before midnight and he looks sleepy, carrying a plain bag because Harry knows he can’t wrap presents for shit and Harry thinks he’s going to throw up. 

It’s like he’s back to that July night where the sun burnt their hearts and the walls turned to fire because he feels smoke down his throat and he just wants to run, run, run because everything feels like it's trying to turn Harry in, cave him out and spit him to pieces. 

He turns away from the door, he turns away from Louis and he’s fucking crying already, and he needs to leave. He thought - he thought he was ready, sitting in the car and breathing heavily through his nose, he thought he had enough, but now it feels like oxygen is limited and he can’t waste it here to die. 

He walks into the kitchen and people are crowded around the counter, nipping at chips and flirting with their drinks, and Zayn finds him by the sink, ready to throw up. “Harry,” he mutters, frowning his brows and worrying his brown eyes, “fuck, are you okay?” 

“He’s here,” Harry heaves, the words like sandpaper in his throat, voice clogged with tears and snot. “He’s _here_ , Zayn, I _can’t_ \- I can’t face him, I’m-” 

“Shit,” Zayn curses and Harry’s wants to apologize, wants to say _sorry for being so fucking weak,_ but Zayn rubs soothing circles on his back and whispers into his skin. “It’s okay, Harry that’s okay. It's fine, you’re fine.”

It takes him what feels like forever to breathe properly and even after, Zayn holds onto his arm like he may fall to the floor if someone isn’t holding him up. He wants to go home and just be left alone, but he also - he also wants to talk. He wants to go up to Louis, show him how happy he is dressed in pretty clothes, all cherry lips and fake smiles, ready to lie to his face, make him sad and angry and tell him that he’s better off now, but he also just wants to know how Louis’ _been_. If he’s been drinking water before bed and if he’s been taking his meals and if he’s even got a place to stay at. 

“Do you - do you wanna head out to the living room, or should I drive you home, Harry? Because I can do that - I can drive you home right now if you want,” Zayn says, bringing him to a corner, speaking in gentle whispers and hiding Harry from the rest of the world as if it hasn’t already hurt him. 

And that’s just the thing. He’s just - he’s got nothing to lose at this point. It’s like he’s bare and open, pushed so far that pushing even more is fruitless and he wants to stop being afraid, but he can’t. “I want to breathe, Zayn. I want to be able to breathe.”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for and he knows it’s more than Zayn can give. But Zayn still nods, as if he’s got all the answers to give, and pulls Harry across the flat, quickly and efficiently, and drags him out to the front, empty porch. The sky is dark and angry, like the blood in Harry’s veins, and he can barely see the moon in the haze of clouds and tears. 

Zayn looks at him once, before turning around, walking past the sliding glass doors and closing it softly behind him, drowning out the sounds of the party, leaving only the lingering blur of noise. He thinks Zayn is like his other half because though his heart is still beating a little too fast, he feels far away, and that's enough. 

He closes his eyes and he can see Louis - see him walking in and see him looking like that boy he thought he once knew. He looks the same, Harry thinks, more or less. He’s still sharp and he’s still handsome. His scruff is still there and his smile looks only a little false. But Harry can see beyond that. He can see the crumpled shirt and he can see Louis’ cuff done weird and he can see the way the bags under his eyes look like reminders and he just wishes - he just wishes he didn’t care because as long as he cared, he loved. And as long as he loved, he was weak. 

It’s so beautifully, carelessly silent that the sound of the glass door opening and closing again feels too sudden, too quick. He waits for whoever it is to speak first, but Harry can feels him already. He’s not going to cry.

“Harry?” Louis asks from behind him, his voice a scratch, a desperate attempt in the dark. Harry closes his eyes again and lets the silence speak for him. In the distant, he can hear a car honk. Louis shouldn’t be here. Not yet. 

Louis doesn’t get it though. Because he walks forward till he stands beside Harry, enough distance for it be normal, but close enough for Harry to flinch. Louis looks ahead and Harry looks at anything but him. Harry thinks maybe he has the right to be angry, yell at Louis and tell him to fuck himself, but it's like he cares more than that. It’s beyond that. 

“How’ve you been?” Louis asks and Harry nearly snorts. “I’ve been great, Louis!” he wants to say, absolutely great as I think of every mistake I could’ve made in the past years with you. 

“Fine,” he breathes out instead. He doesn’t ask how Louis has been. He wants to know, but there’s that voice in his head saying ‘remember how the bastard fucked someone else while living the promise of loving you?’ and he just - he just wants Louis to go away. 

“I’ve - I miss you,” Louis says, his voice breaking and _no_. He can’t _do_ that. 

“Shut up,” Harry says and he thinks it might be a yell, but it sounds more like a whimper; as if he’s just begging Louis to stop it. “Just, just shut up, Louis. Fucking _stop_.”

The words must do something to Louis because instantly he turns around and he looks like the worlds been pushing down on him; his hair’s a mess and he looks so tired and he just - he just stares at Harry as if Harry’s his little world of hope which he isn’t. Not anymore.

“I miss you, Harry,” he says again. “I’ve - I’m fucking lost. I walk around and I see you everywhere and I’m sorry. I miss you and I’m sorry.” Harry doesn’t look at him, but he can’t feel anything but Louis’ stare. He wishes, more than anything, that Louis’ words meant nothing because he doesn’t want to believe them. 

He doesn’t say anything. Because either, ‘I miss you too,’ or ‘I want to see you as hurt as I am,’ would come out and he doesn’t want Louis to hear either of those things. He just stares at the beyond and he can hear Louis breathe and it shouldn’t be comforting, but it's like, after so, so long, he’s finally - he’s finally breathing properly and that doesn’t make any sense because all Louis does it hurt his lungs and his heart. 

(Louis makes his heart and lungs feel beautiful and alive, too.)

 “Fuck, you won’t even look at me anymore?” Louis asks then. He sounds like Harry’s hurting him, shoving him down and shaking him like a broken leg. 

And Harry wants to laugh. Wants to somehow show Louis what they look right now; complete idiots, probably. But he doesn’t do anything. Just waits for something to make him feel anything other than what he’s been living with for the past month.

“Harry, please. Just talk to me-” Louis reaches over to touch his hip and that - that isn’t fair. That isn’t _allowed_.

“Don’t,” Harry hisses, moving away as if Louis’ shocked him and he feels hot all over; suddenly turning to face him like he’s a stranger. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Louis looks pained, looks like he might cry. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt and he looks like a kid being told everything he’s ever known is a lie. He looks like he’s breaking and Harry’s been feeling that way since forever. 

Harry watches him take a deep breath in. Watches him swallow it down and turn himself hard. “You - you can’t tell me you haven’t... you haven’t thought about - about what happened. About us.”

“I have actually,” Harry spits, suddenly feeling a lot colder than before, speaking softly but he knows that isn’t going to last and he’s glad the glass door is shut but the open air is standing as a witness because he doesn’t want this to go forgotten. “I’ve thought of how love means being loyal, I’ve thought of how being committed to someone, being in a relationship with someone means - means not cheating on them.” His voice catches the second the words leave and he feels like a vacuum, a vacancy in his heart, an empty pain in his chest. 

Louis is reaching out for him, like he’ll never learn his lesson, but Harry doesn’t even have time to understand because Louis is pulling him by the arm, pulling him till he’s pushed against Louis’ chest, his head caught in the crook of Louis’ neck and - and it's so familiar, feels like being sent home to see home is nothing more than fragile space. 

He breathes, tears feeling more comfortable, more consistent than anything, and he hates it because Louis is hugging him and it’s what he’s wanted, what’s been missing from his life for so long, longer than possible, and it's like everything is okay, but it's not. 

“Please,” Louis whispers into his hair, holding him tight like he might fade into morning dusk and slip away further from him. Harry can feel him breathe in the scent of his hair, sigh into the strands like they’re the only air he can taste properly. “Please, Harry. Stay with me, please.”

No. No, that isn’t right. “No,” Harry cries, so tired and still fighting. “No, Louis, _no_.” He tries to pull away, but even to him it seems so useless because after everything is dried up to the truth, he just loves being here; between the space of Louis’ arm, being held like he hasn’t been for so, _so_ long. 

Louis doesn’t stop, doesn’t let go. He keeps whispering _please_ , and _together_ , and _we’re meant to last_ , and only when he feels Harry go limp and exhausted, stringed together by threads of loose matter, does he loosen his hold to let Harry think properly.  

Harry looks to meet his eyes, sees them blue and alive, not as vibrant, but they weren’t bright when they were together a few months back, either. He sees Louis’ familiar face and never has he felt so much like a stranger. 

No, he reminds himself. No, and this isn’t fair, and he’s not giving in; not without at least a few answers. So he pulls away, gasps for air when he feels his legs and arms and heart again and hugs his arms around himself because no one else will. “I said don’t touch me,” he whispers to Louis. “Why don’t you ever just listen to me? Why won’t you give me - why do you hurt me?”

“I love you,” Louis says in response. It’s a mantra, as if it's enough and as if it's enough to make things forgivable and Harry’s so tired of hearing it at all the wrong, meaningless times. 

“No,” Harry says. “No you _don’t_. You don’t even-” he can’t finish himself because he’s going to start crying again, except harder and the world is going to see him fall apart again and again and again. “That isn’t answering anything. What you did - it’s done,” Harry reminds, taking a step back so Louis looks at him from a distance, so Harry can run if he needs to. 

He swallows. It’s shattering, the realization that it’s done and that nothing can change and - and that he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know why or what or who and that isn’t fair. Finally, he looks Louis right in the eyes and he whispers the question, afraid it will burn; turn on him and shoot under his skin. “Who was it?” 

Louis looks shocked for a second, a little frown passing his face like a cloud of dead rain, and it's so hesitant and Harry just wishes Louis would stop letting so much space for doubt to enter, wishes he would just say something to make Harry feel relief of any sort. “I - I don’t-”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts one more time, voice like a thundering quaver. “I want - I _deserve_ to know. Who did you cheat on me with, who _was_ it?” 

Louis looks away, shining buildings just beyond, casting shadows of the moon on his face as Harry waits. “It was,” he starts, nearly crying. “It was someone from work. My - she was my intern, fuck, Harry it didn’t mean anything-” But Harry isn’t even listening anymore. Eardrums beating like the static of a sound wave, blood filling in and running out. He tastes metal on his tongue and he’s going to throw up again.

“Your intern?” he whispers, blinking rapidly. “She - it was a girl?” He takes a step back, confused almost, and he doesn’t _understand_. It’s not like - it’s not like there’s any room for wondering anymore. Fuck, Louis is a grown man, it’s more than just having some kind of a gay freak out, he’s been with Harry for years and -

“Harry, you need to listen to. Baby, you have to understand-” Louis says, and now he’s got that look - the one that suggests he’s afraid; as if he can feel Harry passing him, moving around him with no control and he looks fucking _scared_. So, so scared. 

“Why?” Harry asks suddenly, breathing rapidly, though he knows there are salty stripes falling off his chin. “Why would you do it, Louis? _Why?_ ” He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to shout, but if it’s what Louis deserves, then he’ll do it. He can’t - he can’t remember why asking Louis was a good idea, why he would do it in the first place because now he’s so, so angry. Heart tired and just searching for some answers. 

“I - I don’t have an answer for you, Harry,” Louis says, he dares. “I don’t-”

“No, you _do_ , Louis. You _do_ ,” Harry says, moving back till he can feel the railing of the balcony pressing onto his back; reminding him he was still alive. “You _know_ Louis, why- fuck, why are you doing this?” Harry asks, so softly it’s like he’s pleading with him, a small noise in the vast of dark blue; from the sky and from Louis’ eyes. 

Louis doesn’t say anything. Stays silent and looks torn, as if he wants to reach out and stay away, as if he’s stuck in glue to turn to solid, crestfallen like a spare blade and a soft wind in bitter winter. Despondent and left astray. 

“I-” Harry starts, unsure of what he can say anymore, attempting to make sense, trying to understand so that he can forget, but it's like Louis won’t let him. It’s like Louis just wants to keep him trapped and keep him hurt and just wants to make it that much more closer to something unforgivable. “I don’t understand. Was it - was it because... when you touched her, did you see the life you could never have with me? Was that why you did it?” Harry just - he just doesn’t get it. Standing in an open balcony, gripping onto the black of his shirt as if the sky was trying to drown him, he feels like an open wound; he feels useless. “Was it because she was _prettier_?” It's a plea for response because Louis isn’t giving him anything. 

“It didn’t mean anything,” Louis tries, shaking his head and it looks like a foolish attempt to convince Harry of absolute bullshit. He still doesn’t get it, Harry thinks. This is more than just the act, this is more than what Louis did with her, this is why. This is the tipping point of something that's already been decided.

“But you _wanted_ her-” Harry reasons; Harry states. He stares Louis down, barely making out his face in the approaching smog that turns Harry’s eyesight to clouds.

“No,” Harry can see Louis swallow as his figure moves closer. “No, I’ve always only wanted you. Only you.” Harry wants to laugh at him, but he can’t find it in himself to be cruel enough.

“That isn’t _true_ Louis,” Harry sobs instead, “if you wanted me, you wouldn’t have fucked someone else.” He sounds crude, sounds honest, wishes Louis would be the same with him. “If you wanted _only_ me, I would’ve been _enough_ , and I _wasn’t_.” 

“No, baby, it’s not like that,” Louis tries to reach out for him, tries to touch any part of him. His hands have warning signs all around them, as if they’re made of acid that could burn Harry deeper than the skin.  

“Don’t call me that,” Harry yells through his cracked voice. “You have no right to call me that, and you have no right to lie to me. It _was_ like that.”

“Please, Harry.” Louis’ eyes water and a part of Harry burns. With anger or pain, he isn’t even sure anymore. “Please, I love you.”

“That doesn’t matter.” It means nothing. “You- you cheated on me, on our relationship, and I want to know why. I don’t _want_ to hear if or not you love me anymore or if you want me anymore because none of that matters. I just want to know why.”

“I don’t- I made a mistake, that's all Harry, I fucked up-”

“That isn’t enough!” Harry doesn’t understand why Louis isn’t giving him what he wants. He doesn’t understand why Louis won’t do this simple thing for him. Louis already knows why he did it - Harry just wants to know too. “That isn’t enough of an answer, I want to know _why_ and I am sick of asking for the same thing over and over again.” It's a sudden feeling, this calm nausea draping over him, making Harry feel useless, senseless. A body made up of insentient particles, a heart beating in a stringent, steady clap, matching the motions of the swift sky . 

After that, it’s silent for what feels like forever and Louis doesn’t make a single move. His mouth stays shut and his eyes stay pleading. It isn’t enough. 

“Fine,” Harry whispers. “Fine. If - if you can’t so much as tell me what I did wrong, or why you did it, then I don’t need to hear anything else.” He looks at Louis one last time and everything he’s felt for the past few weeks. The hurt. The pain. The betrayal. It all comes down to Louis being unable to answer his only question. 

Harry turns to leave, past fogged glass doors and past a friends birthday party, and he doesn’t say goodbye. He figures Louis will understand by himself.

 

-

 

August picks up wind like a tunnel picks up sound. It’s almost beautiful untill Harry can’t see when he walks down to the school because all his hair gets blown into his face. It’s going to rain, Harry can taste the humid drops before they even fall and he doesn’t have an umbrella, so he moves faster and hopes the clouds will hold off for a little longer. 

The ground crunches underneath him and he’s excited to see his kids because after forever, it feels like he’s finally inside his own body again. There’s a lesson plan he’s got to follow, the rules he straightens the kids by, but he loves them - loves their enthusiasm and their smiles full of life, because it makes him feel as if he’s capable of that beauty, too. That the world still has room for that kind of smiles. 

The school is small, quaint, hidden behind an old ballet studio and an old cinema; walls white and tender; halls smelling like cardboard and aircon. Harry’s shoes are quiet as he walks to his classroom, rooms empty and hollow, children yet to come. 

His classroom is bright. A sense of the children are lingering on the walls in a form of drawings and projects, pastel pictures and sunshine stocked into the the tables. The window is large and Harry’s desk sits by it, the wood lightened up by the morning shine. 

Harry sighs, but it’s a content sigh. It’s like he’s finally in his element - like he’s finally living in the known. The first bell is going to ring in about a half hour and Harry needs to set up the first activity - minute math quiz - and set the name tags up for everybody. So he sets his bag down and he gets to work. 

-

_October, Autumn._

During October break, Harry goes to the lake house back in Cheshire and he spends the week with his mum. She is nothing but warmth and comfort. They curl into balls by the television and Harry cries for what must be forever into her neck and his mother doesn’t do anything; doesn’t say anything, and Harry feels as if he’s let his mum down because she’s always loved Louis and now it doesn’t even matter anymore because so did Harry, but she just hugs him and kisses his head and tells him it’s alright and that he’s going to be okay.

He watches the lake in the mornings, because he can never sleep for long, and he stares at his window at night, because he can never go to sleep too fast, and he slowly feels tension release itself from his bones as he sits on the sofa, rain pouring fast outside, his mum in the kitchen and he feels himself starting to forget. 

-

A part of Harry knew it was coming. Except - he didn’t expect Louis to do it the way he did. 

He was anticipating a fall out, a dry morning during the winter where Louis would come home and they’d both admit that they haven’t been themselves for the longest time, but. But what he got was so much worse; hurt so much more. 

(He got a love turning against him. He got a promise only kept in the light, but forgotten in the dark. He got nothing more than the tiny remains of what they once were and acid tears by his eyes.

He got nothing and everything and he’s left completely empty.)

Sometimes, Harry thinks, sometimes it feels as if this was the best way. There is no room for reasoning, no room for allowance and room for apologies because what was done has been done and it’s plain English, really. Simple and clear. Harry was not enough for Louis and their relationship wasn’t meant to last. It only hurts because that is the exact opposite of everything Harry believed they were; it went against everything all fundamental beliefs, every source of uniqueness that made Harry think they would make it and that they weren’t built for pain and hatred and _cheating_. 

And then there are times when Harry thinks, where did I he go wrong? 

As the sun settles and the water of the river calms to a hum, Harry’s by the front porch, bathing in the warmth as if it would make him feel anything at all, and he thinks to the emptiness, where did I go wrong?

He thinks back to every mistake he could’ve possibly made, every little thing that would have driven Louis to searching and finding someone else and once he’s done reminiscing, he thinks that Louis has broken him. He thinks that Louis has taken every single piece of life left in his soul and strained behind a body made of memories that burns painfully and a body made up of scratches and reminders of mistakes. He thinks that all he is, his name, his face, his identity, is valued to nothing more than someone not worth being faithful to. And the feeling is immutable, as if the hatred he had, for himself and for what he had, would never leave his skin, his mind.

He thinks, winter sun eating him up and spitting him out, that he really isn’t even worth it all. 

-

Gemma calls and her voice sounds grainy and dead through the phone. She’s telling him about college, about life, and he sits and listens because what else can he do? He has to go back to work and back to life after the weekend is over and he doesn’t - he doesn’t really want to think about going back. 

“I think I’ll come home for Christmas, Haz,” she says, not even noticing that Harry hasn’t made a single remark. “We should all meet up at mum’s, like before, y’know? I’ll bring the turkey - all the way from London, promise!” 

It’s supposed to be funny because Gemma doesn’t even like turkey, so Harry forces out a chuckle that Gemma can’t detect is forced. “And you should bring the dressing. And your boyfriend, Louis and I have some catching up to do.” And. And _how_ is Harry supposed to respond to that? How is he supposed to continue the conversation, acting as if Louis means something to his life anymore? 

A choked sound escapes him before he can even think it through. 

“Haz?” Gemma asks, voice hinted in worry and Harry can’t escape this now. “Harry, what's wrong? You alright?”

“He’s not coming, Gem,” Harry breathes out, his voice breaking as he holds in a sob, pulling the phone away from his face to blink away the tears and the horrid sound threatening to be voiced. “He - he isn’t-”

“What?” Gemma sounds more confused than anything. “What’re you talking about, Harry?”

“Louis,” he gasps and it hurts to say his name; hurts to act like it doesn’t matter. “Louis he- he isn’t-” and he wants to say that he isn’t coming for Christmas, but the truth is, he isn’t coming at all. To anything, anywhere, anytime soon. He’s as good as gone. 

“What did he do, Harry?” Gemma sounds threatened, as if something is making sense when everything is just a blur. “What’s going on?”

“He cheated on me, Gem,” Harry whispers, solid and sure because everything in him knows it’s as true as it feels numb to admit, “he fucked some other girl. Cheated on me for God knows how long, and I- fuck, he isn’t _coming_.” 

“Fuck,” Gemma says, her voice strained, “fuck, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, oh my God, I’ll kill him. Where is he, no, how are _you_ \- what the _fuck_ , Harry, are you okay?” 

He isn’t sure if Gemma’s mad or sad or planning murder, he isn’t sure at all till her voice catches again, as if she’s going to start crying _for_ him. “Oh my God, are you okay, Harry? My baby brother, oh my God,” she says and she’s crying, grainy and dead through the phone and Harry feels selfish, because he likes hearing someone sympathizing with him. 

He likes the thought of people against Louis and he feels so selfish for telling Gemma everything through the phone as if it meant so little. He feels selfish and he feels alive. Dead and alive and barely breathing. 

“I’m fine, I’m alright,” he heaves out before a sob is let out. “I’m so, so scared, Gem. I’m worth nothing, I-”

“ _No_ ,” she says fiercely, “no, you’re _not_ worth nothing, don’t - don’t you dare even _think_ that, do you hear me?” She sounds choked, dry and heavy, and Harry isn’t thinking straight. “Do you hear me, Harry? He fucked up. _He_ did. He lost the best fucking thing - and it’s his fault. All him, do you understand?” 

“No, Gemma,” Harry cries. He cries. He’s past covering it up and he’d been doing so well for the past month. Ignoring Louis’ texts and his calls and meeting up with Zayn and Niall and Liam separately and making sure that Louis wouldn’t get another chance to get to him and now, two months after it all, he still - he still can’t not feel something. “I - I wasn’t good to him. I must’ve done something, I had to’ve done something or he wouldn’t hurt me like he did. He won’t even tell me why, I can’t even figure it out, and I’ve tried, Gem. I’ve tried so hard to understand, but I can’t. I don’t know where I went wrong.” 

“No,” Gemma whispers then, seemingly gasping. “It’s not your fault. Not your fault at all, he promised - he wouldn’t do something like this, Harry, he promised he’d never hurt you, he promised me-”

He lied, Harry thinks, he lied about everything. About love and about trust and about his promises, he’s a _liar_. “What do I do, Gem? What do I do?” He’s a liar and he’s hurt Harry so much. 

“Fuck, Harry,” Gemma says then, and Harry can tell she’s panicked; scared. She’s not used to hearing her baby brother so fragile. 

“Fuck.”

-

Gemma suggests that he stays with her for a while, forget life for a second and just stay away from shadows coming back to swallow him whole, but Harry can’t have that. He thinks, walking back to their - _his_ \- flat after the week with his mum, that if he’s going to live alone, he’s going to live _alone_. He’s going to do it by himself and he’s not going to run. He’ll wake up half past six every morning and he’ll get to work by seven thirty every Monday to Friday and he’ll live. He’ll do it. 

The house is much quieter; the feeling of Louis loiters around the bedsheets and Harry can almost feel Louis’ hands on his legs and Louis’ scruff against his cheeks and Louis’ lips behind his neck and he can almost - _almost_ \- feel Louis alive between the walls, whispering and laughing and mocking. When it gets too loud, Harry goes to stand outside, a cigarette by his lips as he breathes in cold air. 

Louis has called - of course he has. It’s not crazy, and it goes ignored, but every time Harry gets a message, even the simple ones that ask ‘how was your day,’ he’ll throw the phone on the couch or on the bed and he’ll turn away because it feels like Louis is there touching him, burning him, and he just wants to let go. He just wants it shredded in the back of his mind.

His heart still tells him it’s not over. It still misses Louis, still wants him. But Harry knows better. The most important thing - the trust in whatever it was they were barely living with, was broken. It couldn’t be mended - Harry wouldn’t let it be mended. He’d given Louis a chance to explain, to give Harry a reason because it was the least he deserved, but he _didn’t_. Louis said he had nothing for him and that was _it_. 

Harry thinks the worst part, though, is the pictures that run through his mind when he closes his eyes. They laugh at him, every single shot in which Harry’s smiling with Louis and being happy with Louis because they all those memories - they look like dreams. They feel as if they never happened at all. 

-

_November/December, winter is coming_. 

Niall opens a bottle of gin and Harry feels his lungs expand. _Finally_ , he thinks, _fucking finally._

“Bottle or glass?” Niall asks, hands circling the neck, his eyes glazed as Harry grins at him. He doesn’t respond, just makes grabby hands till Niall hands it over and then presses his lips to the top and swallows like it’s air. Finally.

“Gem’s gonna fucking kill me,” Niall laughs, taking the bottle from Harry and drinking for himself. “She’s already pissed at me for sneaking in the rum, she’s gonna have my head if she sees I’ve taken you out for a drink.”

“She’ll never know,” Harry shrugs, leaning against the bar table, dim lights casting stars and shine through his forehead. The bar is crunchy, grainy, and it feels warm, warm, warm. Harry knows that the only person he can come here with without worrying about anything at all is Niall and he can never be grateful enough for him. “But thanks either way. She’s been like, super worried about me lately, I just-”

“Yeah, I know, Haz,” Niall grins, “but we’ve all been, y’know? I’m just - I’m just giving you your alcohol.”

Harry smiles back, but doesn’t say anything. He likes the feeling of being drunk and the feeling of forgetting. He likes it when his mind is drenched in fog and smoke, he doesn’t have to think about anything because thinking is what keeps him up at night and alcohol is what puts him to sleep. 

Gemma comes over now and then. Takes the train straight to Harry’s flat and stays the weekend, stays the week with him. She cooks and she wakes Harry up and she turns his phone off when she knows Louis is on the other end and she _stays_ with Harry. She also notices how he’s been drinking a lot more and she hides his beer in the far cabinet which does absolutely nothing because Harry knows this house. He’s been living and breathing in it and he knows where everything is because he’s the one that unpacks groceries and he’s the one who folds laundry and he’s the one who gave the vase in the living room its spot. Either way, Niall sneaks in the rum and that gets hidden in the freezer. 

Harry knows she worries for him; can tell in the way she looks at him as if he’s falling sick when he wakes up with a hangover on the couch. He tells her she’s got nothing to fret over and she slaps the back of his head and gives him an Advil. And then there are the days when she isn’t there and Harry ends up drowning in his tears and in the alcohol on the couch or on the bathroom floor and sometimes he doesn’t even understand why, because it’s got to so much more than just what happened with Louis - it has moved on to just being sad. Sad all the time. 

“You wanna dance?” Niall burps from beside him, drawing him out and pinning him steady. Harry smiles at him from where he sits. Smiles till he can’t stop.

“With you?” he asks, tracing patterns on the table.

“Yes, no, I dunno,” Niall shrugs. “If you wanna dance with someone else, that’s fine. Do you just wanna dance in general?” 

“Yes?” Harry says. “Yes. With you, please.”

And Niall takes his hand, pulls him to the music and they laugh like idiots because they’re fucking idiots and Harry thinks he sees Louis somewhere in the shadows, but he guesses it’s just his past imagination. Louis is gone. In Harry’s head and in Harry’s heart, he’s gone. 

-

On Saturday night, Harry’s doorbell rings and that’s weird as hell. 

Because recently, the only people coming in are people who know him well enough to know the door’s almost never locked and that coming in with no notice is perfectly acceptable and he didn’t order pizza, so he doesn’t get why the doorbell’s ringing.

He’s about half drunk when he stands up from the kitchen floor to go open the door, because he had this perfect plan to get full on, completely wasted and then fall asleep on the floor because there were going to be no distractions but. But.

He’s wearing his loose Ramones shirt and he’s got his briefs on and honestly, when he opens the door and fucking Louis Tomlinson is on the other side, he would love to have been wearing like, skin tight jeans and one of his scoop neck shirts, because he probably looks like a mess and he’s going to shut the door. Slam it in his face, but he’s _frozen_ and he can’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispers because Louis is here and Louis is staring at him and Louis is wearing this careless, wrinkled shirt and he also looks tired and Harry doesn’t - he can’t look at him. “Fuck.”

“Harry-” Louis starts, but he cuts himself off and Harry wants to yell _what? What do you want now?_ He just goes to close the door but Louis’ fucking hand is in the way and Harry’s going to explode, because this is so frustrating and he’s going to start crying very, very soon. 

“Hi,” Louis says instead.

Harry can hear his breathing, can hear how uneven it’s getting and he wants Louis to say ‘I’m sorry, I’ll leave,’ because that’s all he needs, but Louis takes a step forward and that isn’t doing anything, damnit. “I- how are you?” Louis asks, looking at him with these sad blue eyes and Harry can’t look at him so he looks at the wall behind Louis. 

“You don’t have the right to know,” he whispers. “What do you want?” 

“I - I just, I left something here,” Louis says and he looks shocked as if he was expecting more from Harry. “I just wanted to pick it up.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, pulling his arms into himself because Louis being here reminds him of every fucking night he spent hating himself and he doesn’t - he doesn’t want to remember that now, “I’ll go get it.” 

He won’t let Louis in, won’t let him get the satisfaction of seeing _their_ house. 

Louis stays quiet, just stares at him. Stares at him till Harry’s sure he can see his uneven skin and where his mind starts and ends. “What do you want, Louis?” Harry finally asks because he knows. He knows there’s not a fucking thing left in this house that belongs only to Louis, because he’s searched and he would’ve thrown it out or kept it everywhere closeand he would _know_. So he doesn’t get why Louis is here now with more excuses. 

“I wanted to see you,” Louis says, his eyes brimming with sincerity that reaches his voice. “I met up with Gemma last week, I mean, we didn’t plan it or anything, we- ” he cuts himself off. “I ran into her at the park downtown and she - she told me about you and I just, I had to see you- and fuck, Harry, I know you don’t want me here right now, I know that-”

“Then leave,” Harry murmurs, hands holding the door till his knuckles go white. “Don’t talk to her, or me, and leave.”

“I can’t,” Louis mumbles, stepping closer involuntarily and Harry knows he’s going to start crying too. “I can’t just - I miss you. I miss you and fuck, I’m seeing you in _months_ , Harry. I haven’t gotten anything and I’m seeing you now and I can’t leave.”

He’s crying. Harry’s crying now and he isn’t proud and he’s going to give in. “What then, Louis? What do you want?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Louis says. “Fuck, what about you? What - what do you want? I’ve been trying to just let you be and to let you _go_ , but I can’t and I won’t, so I’m here now and I want to know what’ll make you happy. That’s what I want.” 

Harry looks away and he tries to hide behind the door. He doesn’t want to hear this - doesn’t need to. 

“Can I come in?” Louis finally asks when Harry doesn’t give him an answer, voice much softer. His hair is longer now, tracing his eyebrows and kissing the back of his neck. He’s still himself, still sharp, still beautiful, but there’s this aura to him that feels burnt. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says because he doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything. 

“Please, then. Please can I come in? For just a while and then I’ll leave.”

Harry should turn him down. He doesn’t deserve to be here, but it’s his home, too, and Harry can keep Louis away from his heart, but he can’t, can’t ever, keep Louis away from his home. So he ducks behind the door and opens it up by the slightest to let Louis in.

He doesn’t look back as he makes his way back to the kitchen, because he thinks Louis will do what he wants, look around the apartment, take whatever it is he wants and leave, but then Louis follows him to the small kitchen and it’s like a couple months back, quiet in the mornings as they made breakfast in silence. 

Louis keeps staring at him and only him. Runs his eyes through Harry’s face and through his curls and he just keeps looking. Keeps drinking in the sight and Harry feels as if he’s going throw up. He looks around for the cheap wine he had been caressing a while ago and sits on the counter once he finds it, mouth reaching for the brim. He knows Louis’ still staring at him, maybe looking at the bottle, possibly looking at his mouth, and he doesn’t want Louis to say anything, except he does. 

“What?”

Louis shakes his head and sits on the floor, resting his head on the cabinet behind him and Harry knows he isn’t going to just leave. He looks up at the wine and Harry doesn’t even _care_ anymore - he reaches down and passes the bottle to Louis, breathing through his mouth, head getting cloudy and warm. 

“Thank you,” Louis nods before taking the wine and drinking it crudely, swallowing it like Harry does, without bothering to taste it, just getting it down. “Come join me,” Louis says, patting the floor beside him and Harry just moves; perks off the counter and sits down opposite Louis, leaning back against the pipe cabinet. 

They pass the bottle till it feels light and empty and they don’t talk - not yet. Harry knows his guards are up, or at least he thinks they are, so when Louis inches closer and gently touches the skin of his ankle, he doesn’t move because he doesn’t care. The feeling is blurry, anyway. Louis keeps his hand there, pressing his fingers into the soft skin, touch barely there. 

“We - we had it good, didn’t we?” he mutters after a long while, after it feels like voices don’t exist. Harry looks up at him, can see his eyes fogged like when he’s drunk or sad or mad or horny. 

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, admitting the truth he had been thinking of for months. “We did.”

“And I fucked it all up, didn’t I?” Louis says, this absolute soft smile on his face that looks like it’s mocking itself. “Lost it all,” he says, rubbing his head with his free hand and looking at Harry with the softest look. Harry doesn’t want it, but it feels good either way.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, “it’s lost. Finished. There’s no use in talking about it.”

He’s reminding himself it, keeping boundaries because just sitting here with Louis as the night is approaching is insane. 

“But there was good,” Louis insists. “There was so much good - we were so happy.”

“And then we weren’t,” Harry says, nearly giggling because they’re talking about the past like it’s just an old memory. It’s like talking to children about their childhood and it’s like sitting through an old favourite movie, because everything either goes wrong or right. 

“I just,” Louis continues, his hand wrapping around Harry’s slim ankle, holding it gently in his palm, rubbing circles into the skin, “I just wake up and I have all these scenarios in my head. Like what it would be like if - if we were still,” he cuts himself off, nearly laughing and Harry chokes on air. 

“And I think of all the things in the world I would give up just to have another go, another chance and - and fuck, Harry, I would do anything, fuck I would - I just wish you would tell me because I’d - I’d do it and I’d be with you and that would be enough. If I gave up everything and had you instead, it still would be more than enough.” 

“No,” Harry whispers, pulling his ankle back because Louis can’t say things like that - can’t make it seem as if Harry’s the one with all the power and with just a wish, everything would be his, because it’s not like that. It has never been like that. “Stop it,” he says to Louis.

He gets up from the floor, the wine bottle still on the ground with Louis and he looks around for some sort of distraction. If the house was in flames, then at least he wouldn’t have to hear Louis speak of what could’ve been. “You should go. I - I want you to go,” he tells Louis, not watching as he gets up, turning around to look at the empty counter so he wouldn’t have to look at Louis.

But Louis doesn’t go. He stands behind Harry, keeping his distance, and he’s there because Harry can feel him. Can feel his stare and can feel his body and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Please,” he finally says. “You said you’d go. Please just go.”

“Harry,” Louis says, and Harry can feel him coming closer and no. That isn’t what this is about - Harry needs him farther away. “I used to think I’d always be the one taking care of you, but I go grocery shopping on the weekends and I don’t fucking know which cereal it is I like because the truth is, Harry, you’ve always taken care of me. And it’s terrifying because I need you and I’m _sorry_. I’m sorry and I - I don’t want to leave you. I don’t _want_ to.”

Harry turns around then, blinking rapidly, hating Louis for doing this. Hates him for coming in out of the blue and saying everything right. “But you already have. You’ve left me over and over again and you never came back,” Harry blubbers. He can’t think entirely straight, but he can see Louis perfectly and that’s enough. He can see Louis and he seems much closer than before, but he’s there. 

“I know,” Louis chokes, a hand coming up to rest at Harry’s cheek. “But I don’t want to anymore. I love you and I’m sorry.” Harry shakes his head no, wants to voice it out loud and perfectly clear, but then Louis takes up all his space. He stands right between Harry’s mind and his heart and he orbits around Harry’s lungs; all Harry can feel is the way Louis touches his skin and the way Louis breathes him in. 

Louis reaches in, rests his forehead against Harry’s, but in a way that seems cautious. As if he’s scared Harry’s gonna run farther away when Harry’s got no room for choice. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Louis repeats into Harry’s face and it’s not fair. 

“Not enough,” Harry manages - he _pleads_. “It’s not enough.”

“I love you, I care. I’m sorry and I’ll always love you.” And then he’s kissing Harry and. And it’s so cruel, because Harry’s missed it so much and Louis is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him and he starts crying for God’s sake and it’s gross because it’s all wet, but Louis just keeps kissing him and he doesn’t let go. 

He holds Harry’s face in his hands and he touches Harry like he’s a million years old and wilting away. He feels strong and he feels familiar, but then not, because this isn’t the same person Harry fell in love with all those years ago, and yet this person makes him feel just as warm, just as alive. 

Somewhere along the way, Harry must have started to kiss back because he’s feeling hot under his skin and one of Louis’ hands are pressing into the flesh under his shirt, just by the waistband of his briefs. When Harry feels his lungs expand and burn, he pulls back, gasping, and he looks at Louis alarmed. 

Louis looks a sight - red cheeks and dark eyes, his breathing is laboured, but Harry probably looks worse because he’s been crying. Louis keeps looking at him and then he leans in to kiss Harry again, as if Harry’s eyes had been asking him to do so, and by the way Harry kisses back just as fast, he guesses he must’ve been doing something _right?_  

He feels as if he should think. Think properly and think slow, but he feels drunk because he is drunk and Louis has always kissed him in a way no one else has or can, so he doesn’t think and maybe - maybe it isn’t smart. Maybe he should pull back again, not let it go on, but Louis pushes him against the counter and his fingers tug on Harry’s briefs and maybe he just needs to feel. Maybe he just needs to let this happen because it’s either this or dreaming about the memories of this and his memories have got fainter and fainter by the day. 

It’s only once Louis’ gotten his pants off and his dick is laying curled around his stomach, does Harry think what now? Because he’s always known before - he’s always known how they work and how they touch and how they fit but that was before - that was before Louis found someone who made him forget, so what does he want now? Louis presses bruises into his hip, and that feels familiar, but can Harry rest his hand on Louis’ shoulder? Can he kiss Louis’ neck when Louis nips at his collarbones? Is this right?

“I only want you,” Louis says as if reading his mind - as if feeling him scared and unsure. “I’ve always wanted you. Even after I had you, I wanted you and I’ll always keep wanting you.” 

It’s not true, they both know it, because while Louis had him, he ignored him, and only when Harry left did Louis remember. It’s another lie, but it fits with how Louis keeps kissing him, so Harry pretends it’s true. He lolls his head back and lets Louis bite down on his neck, because he pretends it's true and that feels good enough. 

“What - what is ok, Harry?” Louis asks then, pulling away and resting his hands on the counter. “I - I don’t want to push you.” Harry can see Louis’ bulge inside his jeans and he can think of so many things right now, but a vivid thought of Louis with someone else, _inside_ someone else, makes him feels so angry, so _jealous_ , that he reaches out and he holds his warm cock and he whispers into Louis’ ear, “Take me to the bedroom,” and that is enough. 

That is enough because Louis nods and then pulls Harry off the counter and he tugs them to the bedroom - to their bedroom - and he pushes Harry into the bed. It’s enough because Louis takes Harry’s shirt off, then pecks slowly past his nipples and down his navel and then he spends what feels like hours opening him up and getting him ready. It’s enough because Harry comes untouched with Louis’ cock thick and wet and heavy inside him, Louis’ name on his lips like stained cherries, and it’s enough because Louis holds him so close, holds him so tight that Harry doesn’t need to remember, he just needs to feel. 

-

But he needs to remember the morning after because his head hurts and he’s in bed naked and he can’t remember, till he finds Louis sleeping beside him, one hand pulling Harry under his chin, and then all he can _do_ is remember and he’s running to the toilet to finally throw up.

He can’t - at first he can’t inhale anything, but guilt and regret and this tight sickness in his stomach, and then he can’t do anything but sit on the floor, pressed small against the closed bathroom door and sob because what has he done and why did he do it?

Except he knows, because he can faintly remember pictures of last night in the back of his head and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why they were both naked and in bed and fuck, he didn’t want this and fuck, he feels so used. He feels like something tucked under the soil, kept to be forgotten and it feels disgusting, he feels disgusting because he slept with Louis after months of not seeing him and he feels so easy. He feels so little. 

“Fuck.” 

He’s getting cold sitting on the tiles, only in his briefs from last night on, but he doesn’t want to go outside to see Louis. He doesn’t want to see Louis, period, and he wishes with everything he has, that last night wouldn’t have happened.

When he finally works up enough courage to step outside, only to see Louis still laying naked on his bed, eyes closed and asleep, he just wishes that they could go back a year. Stop Louis from taking a better job and stop each other from falling out, because he looks like he belongs in the bed - in their bed. He looks like he fits and it makes Harry want to throw up again because he can’t give in this easily. Not when he’s got nothing because he deserves more - he knows that. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry whispers, trying not to cry as he searches for a shirt to slip on. He’s about to leave the room when he hears Louis grumble and his heart goes dead cold for a second, completely scared and shocked, but when he turns around, he sees Louis still laying flat, torso bare and beautiful, face scrunched up. 

“Harry,” he grumbles under his breath, probably still asleep and Harry has this deep urge to go over and kiss his cheek. To wake him up with pecks that reach beyond his skin and to let them feel that warm morning happiness, but he remembers, softly from his head, that they didn’t do that when they were together - at least, not when they were together this summer. And doing anything more with Louis right now would seem like - would seem like forgiveness. Forgiveness that Harry doesn’t have. 

-

Louis comes out of the room with only his jeans on and he looks tired as hell, but Harry only looks at him for a second. He turns back to toasting the bread and tinkling with the kettle and he does his best to ignore Louis back in their kitchen because it feels all too familiar, yet completely, utterly new.

“Morning,” Louis mutters, coming over to sit on the table and Harry - he just focuses on steadying his breathing and keeping from shaking. He’s so damn nervous.

“I-” Harry starts because he doesn’t know what to say. He’s got hands and he’s got a head, but he hasn’t a clue what to do with either because this isn’t - this is like before. “Do you want some tea?” he manages but he really just wants to throw glass at Louis to watch him shatter. 

“Yes, please,” Louis says and he sounds comfortable - as if something between had been fixed when everything feels a million times worse. Either way, Harry sets a cup of tea, like how he remembers Louis liking it, but not sure of anything. 

“I think you should leave, Louis. And I don’t - I don’t want you to come back,” Harry says when he turns back to the toast. It’s burnt because he hadn’t been paying attention and he can feel Louis still behind him.

Maybe it was too sudden, but Harry’s never been more proud of himself for getting to the point. As is, Louis still croaks out, “What - what do you mean?”

And the thing is - the thing is Harry doesn’t want to... he doesn’t want to explain because fuck, he’s going to start crying or he’s going to start yelling or he’s going to fall to the ground and never get back up but Louis wraps a hand around his wrist, tugs him around to face him and he - Louis looks scared, like Harry’s left his heart in the rain to crumple into dirt. 

“It was a mistake,” Harry blurts out. “Last night was- it shouldn’t have happened, Louis. Fuck, I can’t - I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you in and I, fuck, I want you to leave, Louis.”

“You can’t,” Louis starts, fingers pressing sharply onto Harry’s skin, “fuck, Harry, why? Why was it a mistake?”

“We - we had sex, Louis. We didn’t - it was wrong. It was wrong because we didn’t think and it was fucked up. We hadn’t seen each other for months, Louis, _months_. And when we do - we’re... we’re drinking and then we’re fucking and - and,” Harry heaving now, nose red like rubies and face crumpling like thunder. Louis’ skin feels cold and new against his, feels like plastic wrapping. 

“Lets talk, then. After months of not seeing you, lets talk,” Louis insists. “Anything. Anything at all, but please don’t - please don’t make me leave. Not now. Not when I’m touching you after so long.” 

Sometimes Harry wonders how Louis has all the right words to say at all the wrong times, and no words at all for all the right times. He wonders how he moved on from being Louis’ home to Louis’ past.

He wonders how Louis became someone who hurt him so bad and he wonders why am I thinking this now? 

“Talk?” Harry mocks, voice wet because it's clogged with summer tears in winter. “Talk about what, Louis? Talk about why - why you... why you did _it?_ Talk about what a fucking mess we made of our - of our relationship? Of our home? Do you want to talk about that, Louis?”

Louis nods and Harry expects him to back away like he did all the times before. Leaving Harry with words that mean nothing and empty explanations. “Yes. Fuck, Harry, yes.”

“No,” Harry sobs then, the first tear falls down fast and quick; you’d miss it if you weren’t watching, but it falls on Louis’ wrist, burns the skin. “No, we can’t- it’s too late for that.”

“I was so scared, Harry,” Louis says then and it’s so - it’s completely out of the blue. It’s like a bomb in the ocean in the middle of a hurricane, like a storm inside a dead man’s eyes. It makes no sense. “I was so scared back then.”

“What are you saying, Louis?” Harry asks, pulling his wrist away when Louis’ hold becomes anchoring, when it feels too close to home. 

“We were so angry all the time - do you remember, Harry? Even when we said nothing, we fucking - we couldn’t even look each other in the eye - I couldn’t even look at you in the eye.” No. Harry doesn’t - he won’t - go back then. He can’t.

“Stop it, Louis. I don’t want it -”

“But I want to give it to you. I couldn’t - I couldn’t before, but I have to now. Please.” 

Louis looks at him and he looks ruffled like Christmas sweaters. His hair is long and his stubble is dark, because he hasn’t shaved this morning. He smells dirty and dry and unhappy. 

When Harry replies with silence, Louis goes on, “And I - I got that promotion from work and I wasn’t going to get it. They told me I probably wasn’t going to and then I did and I told you and I was thinking back then - I was thinking, fuck, this is great.” Harry remembers. He remembers how Louis talked about it like he was talking about flying to the stars. Like he talked about making promises to Harry. 

“And I told you and you - you started talking about... about things between us ending and I- fuck, Harry that scared me so, so much. Because you had the power to do that and if you did, Harry, I would’ve - I don’t know, I wouldn’t be able to - to fucking live and fuck, look at us now. I’ve fucked up either way,” Louis laughs, a bitter, cynical laugh. “Fuck.”

“So it was my fault?” Harry says, sounding like a leaf during a shower of sun, “because I didn’t - because I was thinking about us, you decided you could fuck some girl and that-”

“No,” Louis gasps, reaching for Harry’s hand only for Harry to move away. “No, Harry, it was never okay, I know that. But I - I left the house that day and I went to work because that's all I could focus on properly without feeling too guilty about not coming home to you and Julia - she, she was there and she was telling me how great the offer was and how happy I should be and it - it was so easy and I, fuck, I sound so disgusting, but at the time, it felt easier than being with you.” 

And that’s like hearing your idol despises all your attempts of affection. It’s like feeling a vacuum suck all your capability of speech and sound and movement. It’s like getting hurt. Harry takes a step back, flinching as he sobs in response. 

“But, Harry, please, just listen to me,” Louis tries and he’s crying. It’s big and wet and ugly and they’re both crying in their kitchen and it’s so pathetic. “It was only easy because it didn’t matter with her like it mattered with you. It never meant anything. I - I woke up and I thought where’s my Harry? And she was there instead and I couldn’t - I couldn’t breathe because I - I fucked it all up. I’m - I’m so sorry. Harry, I love you, I’m so -” Louis folds into himself, arms coming up to circle himself and Harry’s legs give out so that he slides onto the floor. 

“I’m so fucked up, I’m such an idiot, I don’t -” he keeps mumbling to himself words that Harry doesn’t care about anymore and it becomes blurry noise after a while. Just a commotion between a wave and Harry’s blood feels too thick to be alive. He’s going to pass out, he feels so tired. 

When he finally blinks away the fatigue and the lassitude and the absolutely filthy pain, he looks up at Louis with eyes that look like they have no weight. “Please, just, please leave, Louis. Just leave,” he asks one last time before he pulls himself up and turns around to head back to bed. The burnt toast stays charred and lonely on the counter and Louis makes a few choking noises in the back of his throat, but when Harry wakes up again, afternoon darkness blinding the room, he sees everything as it is. Except Louis is gone. 

-

Come Tuesday afternoon, Harry’s sitting at his desk in the classroom, marking the children’s sentences while the children come up with them when Wilson, this bright kid with stars marking his skin and the sun dancing in his eyes, comes up to him, a small frown on his lips. 

“What’s wrong, Wil? Your sentence was brilliant!” Harry smiles, crouching by his side. 

“No, it’s not that, I know it was good, it’s just-” Wilson looks perplexed, his blond hair framing his tiny head. “You haven’t really told us more about your boyfriend, Mr H. I just, I suddenly remember him cause you said he was really nice and funny, right? And you haven’t told us anything else.” 

It’s like telling Gemma and it’s like telling himself. He can’t tell Wilson, so he swallows because the question - even the fact that the child’s wondering it - makes Harry feel heavy and tight. 

“Oh - we, he’s fine. We just had a bit of a row, ‘s all.” He ruffles Wilson’s hair and he’s about to tell him to go back to his seat, because it's nearly time to pack up, but Wilson frowns again.

“So, you’re fighting?” he confirms, voice only a little confused.

“I - yes. But it’s not - it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” Harry says, trying not to use that baby voice, because he knows no one likes it, but he feels this sudden need to keep these sad and scary and burnt stories away from the boy’s ears and away from his mind. 

“Are you mad at him? Did he make you sad?” Wilson wonders, head tilted like he knows what Harry’s talking about. 

“I-”

“Because if he has, or if you did, Mr H, then you or him should apologize. Like really apologize, with all your heart.  And don’t stop loving each other ‘cause that’s sad.”

And Harry nods as if he considers it, takes Wilson’s hand and brings him back to his table and he tries his best not to blurt out, “it’s not that easy, Wil,” but a part of him thinks, _why not?_

-

Isle two only has bread and spread, but the cereal is on the other side, which Harry’s used to. Thursday afternoons are good for grocery shopping, because he’ll have stock for the weekend and that means sleeping in and staying in and also lots of Hugh Grant on his telly. He picks up his basket, stops by the Nutella, considering, then picking up the smallest jar he moves to the next isle, head ducked and when he looks up, standing by the cereal is Louis. 

He’s had a tough time trying to swallow down thoughts revolving the boy, but now that Louis’ right here, right in front of him, it’s hard to ignore. He tells himself he won’t be immature about this and goes for the shelf even though he’s suddenly feeling a little dizzy.

Louis doesn’t really notice him and Harry watches from the corner of his eye as Louis frowns at the labels, fingers brushing one, but moving to another and his heart lurches. It feels too heavy under his skin. Warm and beating much too fast. He notices Louis’ hand grab hold of a bright orange packet that reads ‘corn flakes,’ but no, that’s not the one, so before he can even think, he’s reaching out for the Frosties package and Louis turns right then to look at him. 

Harry feels caught. As if he was in the middle of moving an ocean and tearing down a sky, when all he was doing was reacting. He doesn’t meet Louis’ shocked eyes, just gently sets the cereal inside the basket in Louis’ hands. He thinks maybe he should move away, take what he needs and pretend this never happened, but - but he can remember Wilson’s voice, and it’s stuck like a mantra in his head and it’s so annoying, but he stands silently. He stands and he doesn’t know what to expect. 

“Hello,” Louis says quietly, his voice with a stinging scratch to it. He looks worn out in sweats and a hoodie, but Harry’s seen him at his worst in a shirt and in tears. 

“Hi,” Harry nods, quickly reaching for the Kellogg’s cereal he prefers so that he won’t forget. “How are you?” he asks because he - he honestly just wants to _know_.

Louis looks at him like he’s got nothing better to do. Staring intently before shaking his head. “Honestly? I’ve been a mess. The only reason I’m here is because the flat’s completely out of food,” but he grins when he speaks, an easy smile that looks tired in his face. “How about you?”

“I’m... tired. Came straight from the school, so. Yeah.” He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say - is there a manual? Some sort of a guidance? Because this feels like completely new territory and Harry can’t remember back to when he didn’t greet Louis with anything but a peck. Can’t remember back to when he first met Louis and they were strangers falling in love.

“Thank you,” Louis says then. “For the cereal. I’ve been eating lots of different ones. I could almost remember the tiger on the box, but it was - I dunno, unclear. So. Thanks.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says quickly because he doesn’t want to make a big ideal over something he never intended to do. It feels uncomfortable, standing here beside the person he used to call his, but it's been so long since he’s just talked to him, so Harry stays. Doesn’t turn away, doesn’t do anything even though he’s still so... he’s still got so much anger in him. He still wants to throw inflamed glass at Louis’ head.

They stand still and then it’s getting late, so Harry thinks, this has been fun, but he should better leave. “I should get going. It was nice seeing you, Lou.” 

Fuck, he wants to take it back. He wants to take it back, because Louis lights up then, staring at him with these eyes that scream hope and future and love when Harry feels awkward just standing there. He nods quickly, then moves to leave.

“Wait,” Louis mutters just before he turns.  “I - do you want to go out? For a walk? Right now, just at the park or something?” 

“I-” Harry thinks, the tugging the back of his heart wants him to say yes, wants him to learn about Louis all over again and give this, whatever it’ll be, a chance. But then there’s that anger, and there’s that pain, and there’s that questioning that makes him look straight in Louis’ eyes and say, “I’m gonna go home and I’m gonna answer some emails. I’m probably going to have dinner and then I’m gonna go to bed so that I can wake up tomorrow for work. I- I can’t go for a walk, I’m sorry, I’ll see you around.”

And it’s like - he wonders how many times he’s turned his back on Louis and how many times Louis keeps coming back and he feels this tangible guilt that gnawed at his skin because he wonders if he’s worried about his heart or his pride. 

-

_December, four days till Christmas_. 

“I miss him,” Harry says to the air, watching it become the past. Liam turns to look at him, but he’s just smiling sadly. Niall looks down at him, because he’s laying his head on Niall’s lap and Zayn makes some grunting noise from the kitchen. 

“Pretty sure he misses you, too, babes,” Niall says because he’s the sweetest, but Harry just wishes someone would tell him to get the fuck over it. 

“What’re you going to do about it?” Zayn asks, walking into the living room and handing everyone a beer. There’s a movie playing and it’s the last gathering before they all head home for Christmas.

“Absolutely nothing. I still hate him,” Harry says, rolling over to nuzzle into Niall’s shirt. Nights like these are warm and steady. They don’t add weight on Harry’s skin and they don’t drive expectations to his head and he feels, after what seems like forever, comfortable in his own body. 

He aches. In the corners of his heart and the in the cleft of his knee, he aches and he hurts. He remembers Louis and he remembers touching his face like that’s all he’s ever known and he remembers kissing him. He aches because sometimes he feels so tired and he aches because sometimes he wishes he could just forgive. 

There’s been that guilt hanging with him, telling him that Louis did what he did because he made him worry, but he doesn’t think that was what Louis intended to say. He thinks Louis just wants him to know he’s always loved Harry, always cared. Harry just wonders if it’s enough, and then he wonders, why not?

“He loves you, though,” Liam says. “He loves you every day, you know that right?”

“What should I do about it, though? Is there like, a time frame in which we can’t talk at all, and then talk everyday? Is there a rule explaining what to do when you have a fall out with someone you’ve been with for years?” Harry wonders, his voice a mumble.

“There shouldn’t need to be one,” Zayn says, exasperated. “Listen Haz, it’s like - he’s done something wrong. He knows it, you know it, we know it. If or not you think he’s worth forgiving - that’s up to you. But, you have to think now, do you want him in your life anymore? And if so, as what? And you need to talk to him - at least so that you’ll get some sense of closure. Otherwise you’ll go fucking crazy.”

“He’s right,” Liam says, nudging over so that Zayn falls on his lap and Harry groans, because Zayn is right and Liam’s so fucking gone for him and it’s sweet, because he remembers how they all - Louis included - met years ago and how they became who they are now and he thinks, yeah, he wants Louis in his life. 

“Fuck you all for being right,” Harry sighs, closing his eyes om search for sleep.

He hears Niall yell, “Hey, I said nothing!” before he hears nothing at all.

-

Christmas is hot and fast, time passes like the wind. He stays with his mum for both Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner and Gemma comes in one morning with a boy by her side. They eat too much and Harry feels warm from all the wine and it feels good to be with his family, but he remembers his sister talking about bringing Louis for Christmas and he thinks how wonderful it would have been if Louis was there. 

Louis’ birthday passes and Harry has a gift stored up from January that he thinks he’s going to have to give him somehow. The night before he has to go back home, Gemma takes him out to a pub with her new beau and Harry dances against a guy who holds his hips too gently and when he offers Harry a ride home to his place, Harry just pecks his cheeks and walks away because he doesn’t know how to be with anyone but the man who hurts him the most.

-

_December, 31. New Years._  

“Fucking hell,” Harry mutters. He’s baking gingerbread cookies and the oven’s breaking down on him. Worst luck ever, he thinks. It's New Years and he’s baking and he can’t even do that properly. 

The doorbell rings and Harry’s pretty sure it’s Niall, cause Niall’s made some drunk promise to take him out drinking on New Years, but when he opens the door, he should’ve known better. 

“Uh,” he stammers, because Louis is standing in front of him in a suit and tie and he looks like he’s been running and Harry’s so confused. He’s about to say hi, because they’re civil with each other now, but Louis doesn’t even give him the chance. 

“The company’s told me that the offer for New York still stands,” Louis says, words falling like rain in a rush faster than the clouds. Harry’s halfway into a gasp when Louis continues, “said if I say yes, then I can leave by the end of this week and I- I can get a fucking apartment there and my salary’s going to triple and you’ll never have to see me again.”

He stops then and Harry’s going to throw up. What the fuck?

“They told me just now - want an answer by Friday but I - I came straight here, Harry. This is so fucking amazing, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not even - it’s not even my choice. It’s not my choice now and it wasn’t my choice back then, because at the end of the day, I’d do whatever you’d want me to,” Louis says. He sounds like he’s on the far end of madness, Harry thinks. He’s going to start crying.

“So tell me, Harry,” Louis says, not waiting for Harry to speak. “Tell me if you - if you want me gone and I’ll go. And tell me if you want me to stay because - because I will, fuck Harry, I will. I’ll do it.” 

Harry opens his mouth, but he makes no sound. It’s too fast, and he can’t even think. “Fuck,” Louis looks like he’s going to cry, a desperate edge to his voice. “Fuck, tell me not to go, Harry. Tell me to stay-”

“Don’t go,” Harry blurts, fingers clawing into the wood of the door because he feels like he’s going to fall over. “Don’t - don’t fucking go, Christ.”

Louis’ breathing goes hard, goes out of rhythm and Harry’s got the urge to kiss him everywhere. “Alright,” Louis whispers, nodding. “Yes, alright.”

The ding of the lift rings throughout the corridor and their next door neighbor, Maria, walks out with some shopping bags. She’s round and warm, hair piled up in a bun of dark strands. She looks up from her bag, keys in hand and she beams up at Harry and Louis. 

“Hi!” she grins. “Haven’t seen you in forever,” she tells Louis, trying to balance her bags and laughs when Louis moves to help her out. “You both look like you’re going to start crying... I better head off, thanks, darling, hope to see you around more, happy New Year,” she says to Louis before smiling her way into her flat and Harry takes his time to look away, drying his eyes with rapid blinks of his eyes. 

When she’s gone, it’s still silent and Harry can’t think of what to say. He doesn’t even know what he wants, but he knows that Louis is here. He’s here and that’s sufficient. “Are you going anywhere?” Louis asks. He still sounds unsure, treading on acidic water as he looks at Harry with the sun and with all the hope in the world. 

Harry shakes his head because he can’t trust his voice anymore and Louis nods, taking the slightest step closer. “Do you wanna go for that walk now? It’s still break, so I doubt you’ve got work tomorrow and I promise I’ll have you home by midnight.”

Harry looks at him for a long time. He can remember his boys and he can remember Wilson in the back of his head and he’s looking at Louis, but he’s not looking at the Louis from all those years back. He’s looking at a Louis he loves differently, he’s looking at a Louis he’s going to have to learn again. 

“I’ve got gingerbread in the oven,” he whispers loud enough for Louis to hear. “Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

-

The park is empty, dark and silent as they walk. Harry can hear the way Louis tries to keep his breathing steady, because it feels like they have all the time in the world. It feels like everything is endless, dulcet and gentle, like a dream from another world. 

“What did you do for Christmas?” Harry asks, eyes trained on the way his feet drag around the ground. It didn’t snow today, but even in his layered jacket, he feels cold from the crown of his head to the tips of this toes. 

“Went back home to Doncaster,” Louis says. “The girls were asking about you, but I told ‘em you went back home, too. Only mum knows about what happened.”

Harry nods and he’s glad the girls don’t know. He’d imagine Lottie would have some questions, but he hopes Louis’ kept them guessing. They’d always looked up to a love like the one Harry and Louis used to have - Harry doesn’t want that dream taken away. 

“I’d imagine Anne and Gemma know too,” Louis continues. “I mean, when I met Gemma a few weeks back she was so - they both hate me a lot, don’t they?” Louis speaks like he’s laughing at himself, like he’s so, so scared and aware. “My mum was so angry with me, you should’ve seen her. For a while, I thought everyone was. Mum, the boys, you, even me, I was so...”

“They had the right to be,” Harry whispers. “You did, too.”

“What about you?” Louis changes the subject. “Back home to Cheshire?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs. “Happy late birthday, by the way. Sorry I didn’t call-”

“No,” Louis laughs. “No, fuck, thanks, but I didn’t - I didn’t think you would, you didn’t have to. Thank you, though.”

“What did the girls give you?” Harry asks. He wants to ask about other things, about how he’s been with rent, where he’s been staying, but when Louis talks about his sisters, he feels light and free. It feels more comfortable than bringing up things unnecessary at half past eleven at New Years. 

Louis grins. “They combined their pocket money to buy me a shaving kit,” he says and Harry smiles at that. “They say that though my scruff is attractive, it’s very painful to give me kisses on the cheek. Lottie gave me cufflinks ‘cause they’re easy and her boyfriend was there, so he gave me cake and the promise to never hurt Lott.” 

They reach the playground in the park and Harry heads for the swings. It’s hard to see very clearly, but the side lamps are blinking like fallen stars, so it doesn’t really matter. Every now and then, they’ll hear screaming from the main road and they can see flats with raging parties going on, but from where Harry sits, he feels the most warm. 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to, Haz. I feel as if all we talk about is what I’ve been doing,” Louis says, sitting on the swing next to Harry, their jackets barely brushing. 

“I haven’t been up to anything, really. I just - I go on, I guess. The kids at work made paper snowflakes to decorate the front hall and we had a Christmas party on the last day with fairy cake and balloons. I gave mum a new cookbook ‘cause she wants to learn about where I get all my new recipes and I got Gem a lipstick from MAC. She said she wanted the shade of my lips, and they actually had the colour,” he laughs as he speaks, staring up at the sky. “Speaking of Gem, she’s got herself a boyfriend now. He’s nice, I guess. Talks about rates a lot.”

“How about you?” Louis hesitates, playing with his thumbs. “Have you - are you seeing someone?” Harry wants to laugh at that. Maybe be a little cruel and tell him yes, he’s been fucking everyone and everything and it has been amazing, but it isn’t true. It’ll never be true.

Still, he laughs, but only a little. “Nope,” he sighs. “Not unless you count the guy from the day after Christmas, but I don’t think he does.” Louis nods. Maybe he feels relieved, a sense of hope might be going through him, Harry wouldn’t know. “And you? Are you still - your intern?” Maybe it was more cruel to bring her up than bring up a list full of men that didn’t exist, but either way, Louis looks up instantly and Harry doesn’t even have it in him to be angry, he’s just a little tired. 

“No,” Louis gasps, shaking his head. “No, she never - “ he stops himself then, looking at Harry’s curls as if to keep from looking at his eyes. “I still see her at work. Every day, even,” he says, “but she knew, from all those months back, that it was a mistake. She knows that, I know that, fuck Harry, you know that. I haven’t - there hasn’t been anyone else, because there was only one that mattered. And you know who that is.”

Harry smiles down at the ground, shaking his head. “Y’know, you’ve told me that quite a few times - how it didn’t mean anything, but I - I don’t know if I can always believe it. I want to, fuck, I want to believe you Louis, but,” he sighs, “but.” 

It’s a peaceful quiet again, the wind speaking for itself in massive currents, loud and roaring and Harry thinks it must be getting pretty late. 

“I don’t think I would’ve ever said yes,” Louis says then, almost muttering to himself but Harry can catch it. He catches it and he looks at Louis with a raised eyebrow. “The New York thing? Yeah, I don’t - I don’t think I would’ve ever taken it. Not if you stayed back here.” Louis looks down at Harry hands, tracing his thin fingers, and Harry thinks he might want to hold it. Harry thinks he may let him. “It's like - even when I got it back in July. I had this - this image that we’d go there together. Like, I know your life is here - the school, your mum, but... I’ve always thought of beautiful it would be to go together. Rent out an apartment with like the best view in the fucking world and - and you could do yoga in like a one of those yoga places and I just -,” he stops himself, voice catching as if remembering something that hurt to think of. 

“I just imagined you everywhere with me, y’know? And when you weren’t here, when I was alone, I realized how much I fucking rely on you. I’ve always thought I’d be the one taking care of us. I’d always get you home to your mum and keep that dimple on your cheek, but it’s like - it’s like you’re the one who keeps us together - you’re the one who keeps me together, I-  I would probably go to New York, or anywhere else in the world, searching and searching, but never finding a home because you wouldn’t be with me. That's scary. That is so, so scary, Harry.” 

He’s crying now, tears cold from the wind, silent but understandable from the way his voice shakes. He looks so young, so tired, so ready to keep fighting. 

“Maybe I asked you because I needed to know. I needed to know if - if I was ever allowed back into your life, but if I wasn’t - I would’ve left you alone. You need to know that, Harry. If you didn’t want me - if you don’t want me - anywhere near you, I’d listen to you. I’d probably break the world, probably cry on your doorstep, but never let you know cause I’d do it.”

Harry watches him shake, watches him look raw and hurt and human and he feels the pressure of Louis’ words burn down on him, knocking his sides and yelling, ‘listen to me!’ He thinks there are so many things he could say back, but he can only think of one thing relevant. “Ours,” he whispers, reaching out and gently brushing Louis’ frozen, calloused hands with his fingers. “It’s our doorstep, not mine. The house will never be only mine,” he says softly, speaking as if the words are dangerous.

“C’mon,” he says then, standing up. “We better get going - it’s nearly midnight and you promised you’d have me home before then.”

Louis’ hand brushes his as they walk, but Louis doesn’t hold it and Harry knows why. It’s up to him. It’s his decision, not Louis’. Though it doesn’t feel like it, because he still doesn’t know what to do. This is like before. 

The reach their apartment, but they wait by the door. Harry keeps chewing on his bottom lip and Louis doesn’t look him in the eye, but they’re speaking silently. “Are we friends?” Louis asks, then shuts his eyes and scrunches his nose - he didn’t mean it to come out like that. “I mean -”

“There’s a part of me that’ll never believe that we’re friends, Louis,” Harry says. “It’s just, friends don’t-”

“Love each other like we used to?” Louis provides, a simple smile on his face and Harry slowly nods. Friends don’t love each other like Harry still loves Louis. 

“I want to try,” Harry says finally, feeling as if he’s speaking the truth after so long. “I’ve missed you, and I want to try again, if you do too, but - I don’t know how to - how to trust you.”

Louis doesn’t look like the sun, like he’s getting everything he’s ever wanted and Harry doesn’t expect him to. He’s just said he can’t trust Louis, and that isn’t something worth enjoying. Louis swallows and Harry continues. “And I don’t want you to make me promises. They’re - fucking bullshit, is what they are. And I just - I want to know how I’ll be assured you won’t do it again. How can I know that?” This isn’t the time for crying, because they’ve been crying non stop, but Harry still feels that familiar burn in the back if his lids. He isn’t even sure if Louis wants this anymore. 

“I know what it’s like to lose you,” Louis says and he sounds so sure, “and I don’t ever, ever want to feel it again. I don’t ever want to have to force myself to stay away from this doorstep because I know I’ve hurt you so much. I don’t ever want you or myself to hate me as much as I know we both did at one point.” Alright. 

Alright.

Harry nods and Louis looks hesitant, but he reaches forward and he looks down at Harry’s hand, then back at him, as if asking. Harry replies by taking Louis’ hand and intertwining them with his own, thriving in the way it feels like he’s being carved together again. It’s slow, not rushed or crazy or even all that predictable, but it feels good. It feels right and Harry thinks, alright. 

There’s a sudden buzz that fills the apartment block and then they hear it - the countdown and theres only ten seconds to go. 

Louis nods and Harry nods back and it's five, four, three and Harry’s smiling because alright, and then it’s New Years and there’s a whole lot of cheering and the sound of fireworks go off somewhere, maybe in the back of Harry’s mind, or maybe in the smile inside Louis’ eyes, but okay. 

Harry takes a step back, opens his door and Louis lets his hand go. 

He isn’t letting the grip retreat though, because Harry can still feel his touch.

-

A week later, Louis says he wants to cook them dinner back at their flat and Harry smiles at the thought. Louis comes over early, at around six, even though they know he has work, and he keeps Harry out of the kitchen.

Harry knows what it’s going to be - the usual dish Louis makes them, for anniversaries or birthdays or days he feels like getting lucky, but when he brings out the plates, Harry sees three uneven, dark pancakes with syrup and butter on top. When he raises an eyebrow at Louis from across the table, Louis just smiles this small, fond smile that looks almost apologetic. “For all the breakfasts I’ve missed,” he says and Harry starts crying again because he’s so - he’s so sentimental and yucky and in love and he’s missed Louis so, so much. 

Louis gets up, taking cautious steps till he’s hugging Harry so tightly Harry can’t breathe and okay. Okay.

This is okay.

-

On Harry’s birthday, Louis has Harry on his back, Harry’s long legs hitched over Louis’ shoulder as Louis fucks into him slow and careful. He presses winter kisses on Harry’s neck and he butters summer pecks on Harry’s forehead and Harry feels so beautiful and so full, that he cries. 

(He cries so, so much.)

And when he comes, all over his stomach, he whispers in a voice dry and broken and mellifluous, “I love you,” and the thing is - he means it. He means it, because when they fall asleep later, Louis holding him and whispering “I love you, too,” or “never letting go, ever,” or “fuck, you’re my home,” he can still hear himself saying it into Louis’ neck and he can feel it in his bones and he can hear it over and over again in his sleep and he doesn’t feel anything but love.

-

They tell they’re friends they’re trying. That they’re understanding. Harry whispers things like, “the house was so quiet when you weren’t here,” and Louis mutters things like, “I could feel you in the morning, but you were never in the kitchen,” and they try. Louis comes home and Harry makes dinner and they try to stay away from what they once were. They get frustrated, they get scared, but they’re still so madly in love.

-

The bed was made for two.

New and unfamiliar as they retrace their steps and fall in deeper; white sheets turn into darkness as the night settles and their skin feels a hot alive. The sounds are clear, vivid, burning like fires and lit in the summer of their room. There’s a buzz in the seams, a life in the laughs and everything is dry and grey and living.

The bed was made for two.

They’re learning. Feeling.

They’ll figure it out. 


End file.
